#i think his first body could bleed ... but now it's all metal . i give him a 'human' face plate though . | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whorediaries-09 · 3 months ago

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Hii! Okay so I was that Barty ask, so thank you for answering!!!

I was thinking it could be for a knife kink? Maybe with dialouge #4, #27 (potentially marking initials?), and #30. I was thinking the reader could be the one to use the knife, but you take this whatever way you think is best! (Only if you want to use this idea ofc!)

oh i'm drooling...

but you belong to me;

pairing- barty crouch jr. x reader warning(s)- 18+ content, blood, darkish themes. a/n- both barty and the reader are fucked up in the head in this fic. they're both death eaters sooo. also first barty fic don't come at me.

ps- i left out one of the dialogues since it didn't fit in the fic. sorry </3

prompt- knife kink + 'do whatever you want to me. i'm yours to use,' + 'mark me. mark me so everyone knows who i belong to,'

the diner. kinkotober masterlist. kinkotober rules.

'you insolent little fucker!' you scream, bashing barty against your cold wall. your knife points at his neck, and he's wise enough, for now at least, to not do anything to agitate you further. he knows better than that, you with a knife was more dangerous than you with a wand.

'what the fuck?' he asks, trying not to notice just how attractive he found you all riled up like this. your voice cold and cruel against his eardrums. it brings him a sense of mirth which he can't describe. it makes his blood rush faster, it makes him feel hotter. he feels it crawl under his skin, gnawing at him.

'you think you can take credit for everything? when i go out and get my ass fucking kicked by everybody else, you think you'll sneak away with all the power?'

barty hissed, poking out his tongue habitually. the dark room, lit by candles, illuminated your features. your breath was hot against his mouth, as you moved closer, intentionally or not, he didn't know.

all he knew was that he felt his crotch tighten and grow painful, bulge forming against his slacks. he couldn't help it, the cold graze of the metal of your knife digging into his skin, an inch from injury roused him further.

you stared at his eyes, which dilated with every passing second. you pretended not to feel the bulge against your crotch. it had been cat and mouse between the both of you for a month or three. if you'd finally get him on his knees, begging for you with a knife at his neck, you weren't complaining.

neither would he.

'you're so pathetic,' you spit, testing the waters. 'i can feel your erection you know,' you said, digging the edge into his skin deeper, somehow still not hurting him. you felt all the walls he'd build trying to constrain himself melt, as he falls deep into your words.

he wants your knife carved into his skin. he wants you to make him bleed, to let the metal of the blade go under his skin. he wants you to carve your name out on his skin. he wants you open up his chest, sink your hands into his barred ribs. he wants you to crack them open, take out his beating heart. feel it beat quicker as you kiss him. as you explore him. as you touch him. as you feel him.

he doesn't say anything. but it's as if you know what he wants to say. you can smell the lust growing, the charged electricity growing between the both of you. in a short moment, you spin him, throwing his body on your bed.

'whatever shall i do to you?' you mock, thrashing out your knife across his clothes. they fall on your sheets like dominos when pushed. you see his bulge hard against his slacks. his eyes are glassy, almost begging, but not giving in yet.

he wants you to force him to give in.

you straddle his hips, knife against his bare chest. you feel his heart rate quicken. his hands grip your waist, and you slap them away.

'don't touch me until i tell you to,' you say, cold metal of the knife slowly passing through the layers of his skin. till droplets of blood seep out, till a wound forms.

'do whatever you want to me. i'm yours to use,' he breathes slowly, toying his tongue over his chapped lower lip. he watches your lip curl.

'i'll ruin you, barty,' you say, lips trailing over chest. it stops at his wound, lips sucking the blood onto your tongue. the metallic taste falters on your taste buds, spreading across the wet muscle before it mixes with your saliva, salvaging down your throat. he hisses at your action. he bucks his hips, clothed erection against your wet core.

'mark me,' he says, as you zip him down, 'mark me so everyone knows who i belong to,'

'oh yeah?' you say, degrading. you line your cock to your slit, pushing himself inside of you. your walls clench as you feel him fill you. you slowly drag the knife across his skin, so he feels the cold blade striking across his skin. you thrash it across the layers of his skin, forming the alphabets of your initials. blood draws out with each stroke.

he winces with which strike against his skin as he bleeds. it hurts, it burns. but the coldness of his blood against the fierce nature of his wounds is a contrast. the thought that your initials will leave a scar on his chest is a comfort.

you place your lips on the wound, the fresh blood that oozes out of his chest. you let its taste stay before you hold his mouth, pulling him closer to your face. your lips interlock with his, your tongue slipping into his mouth. his and yours saliva mixed together with his crimson blood falters as you hold him enchanted with your kiss.

'now i've marked you as mine,' you say, moving your hips slowly. you take his hands into yours, placing them on your waist. 'you hear that? now you're mine, and solely mine,' he thrusts his hips, taking the cue. you put the knife against his neck, so close to his artery. it's almost as if you can see the blood convulsing from the thick nerve.

'and you're going to fuck me,' you breathe, as his thrusting eradicates, unrhythmic and desperate. you catch a moan in your throat as his tip hits your g-spot. 'you-you're going to fuck me till you've ruined yourself for anyone but me,'

'i'm going to,' he groans, your walls clenching around his cock with your core tightening, the pleasure of orgasm on the brink of release. 'ruin myself, just for you, darling,'

it's more of a promise, and one of the few genuine things he'd promised you. you breath harer, not being able to control your moans and groans anymore.

'i'm going to,' your head falls backwards, the pleasure almost escaping, 'f-fuck, i'm going to cum,' you say.

'me too, darling,' he says, his thrusts now sloppy.

'together,' you order. he nods, and you pull him closer by curling your hands behind his sweaty neck, and plant your lips over his, kissing him deeply, swallowing all his moans and gasps as you clench and release around him, and he simultaneously releases inside you. he fucks you through the wave of release before his cock softens inside you. his cum flows down on the sheets, and you wince, sensitive.

'you belong to me,'

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©whorediaries-09, 2024.

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #barty crouch jr #slytherin #slytherin skittles #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch jr fanfiction #barty crouch jr headcannons #barty crouch jr smut #barty crouch jr angst #barty crouch jr fluff #smut

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ghosty-writes-23 · 8 months ago

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RE2R!Zombie!Leon Headcanons.

!TAGS!: Pure Fluff, tiny bit of angst at the start, No NSFW Content, Leon being blissfully unaware of things.

Ghosty's Notes: These headcanons came from a one-shot I wanted to write a while ago but never got around to actually writing, I feel if Leon was a zombie be would be a mix of Wall-e from the Disney Pixar movie and R from the movie Warm bodies, innocent and caring but determined with a good heart.

Thank you for all the support, it means alot❤️

-Ghosty❤️

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Leon was an undercover police officer investigating the umbrella corporation, but sadly he would find himself being betrayed by the people he thought he could trust, and his team mates as he became part of umbrella’s experiments turning him into a zombie causing an outbreak.

Decomposition had been a lot kinder to Leon, his uniform was slightly soaked in blood, some of it was human but mostly his own, he had some open wounds on his shoulders, chest and back they had stopped bleeding but remained opened as he didn’t heal, cuts and bruises littered his face, he made a makeshift muzzle to put over his mouth to prevent him from biting anybody.

Your first interaction with him is in the RPD underground car park, you had injured your leg and now were stumbling into the car park as you could hear the howl of zombie dogs chasing you. Feeling as if you want to give up a cold hand tugged you down by a car, when you looked at who had pulled you down you were met by a pair of cloudy blues eyes that had a dead but curious look to them.

At first you were terrfied thinking he was going to bite and infect you and before you could think your survivor instincts kicked in and you grabbed the knife from your boot and plunged it into his chest, in that moment you froze, in shock and fear not believing you had just done that.

Once you released the handle the zombie looked at you almost sadly before he reached to his chest and pulled the blade out and wiped the dark blood off onto his gloved hand, you looked at him as you started to feel guilty, was it because he didn’t attack you first?

You felt his gloved hand on your cheek and slowly travel down your jawline and your neck, to the top of your shirt the dark blood on his glove smearing into your skin, then he leaned in with his nose brushing it against your neck, you held your breath for a second, he grunted softy before he grabbed your hand and stood up and gently tugged you along with him, at this point you had no option but to follow him.

He took you to what looked like looked like an art room, it was on the second floor of the RPD, it was a small room with a statue and other art pieces, it was cozy and would have to do for the night.

The zombie that brought you here keep guard all night, he sat by the door as if he was trying to protect you and prevent anything from entering.

After that day the zombie followed you around like a puppy, when he isn’t out exploring on his own, he was your shadow and you were NOT allowed to go anywhere without him.

After staying in the RPD art room for 2 days you decided to take off your now pet zombies muzzle, since he just looked uncomfortable, he didn’t try to fight you as your fingers delicately unbuckled the strap and let the metal fall to the floor.

But when you took the muzzle off you heard something that shocked you to your very core. “Keep-You-Safe.” You heard quietly, almost as if your mind was playing tricks on you, his voice was raspy and strand as if he was forcing the words out, but you were in shock.

!ZOMBIES DON’T TALK!

With this new information you found out your zombie’s name was Leon, and he could only speak 3 words at a time, he spoke very slowly and his voice never got louder than a whisper, but you were just in disbelief that he could actually talk.

With his curious nature you had to tie something around his wrist to prevent him from walking off to explore as you have lost him a few times in the RPD.

He likes to help you anyway possible; he just wants to be useful and helpful.

He likes to bring you gifts that he thinks will be useful, like times he brings you things such as bullets, keys, and medical supplies while another time he brought you a shinny rock that was in the shape of a heart from his outdoor adventures. (Much like a penguin)

Some gifts he will give you: Shinny Rocks, Dead Flowers, and anything else he can find that he thinks you will like.

He broke the glass of the vending machine outside the west office on the first floor so you could have something to eat.

Your always having one sided conversation but you know Leon is listening by the way he looks at you, or tilts his head like a puppy when he doesn't understand something, which you don't mind explaining something to him in more detail.

Lets be real, he is the reason you survive the apocalypses.

Happy Ending: With some makeup and somewhat clean cloths you were able to smuggle Leon out of Raccoon city without being detected, but now you had a new mission to find either the scientist that created the virus that infected him or a scientist that could cure him, as you were determined to try and cure Leon to pay him back for protect you in Raccoon city.

Angst Ending: The US government discover Leon's existence and without hesitation he is executed to prevent another outbreak despite your begging and pleading trying to make them see he is different from any other zombie.

He would be willing to sacrifice what little time he has left (his life) if it meant you got out safely.

Be patient he is a little slow.

Y/n watching Leon trying to open a door:

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!One-shot Coming This Month!:

Let Me Be Your Inspiration. - DI!Husband!Leon + Writer!Fem!Reader. "Let Me Be Your Inspiration Doll."

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©Ghosty-writes-23, 2024. all rights reserved. !I DO NOT! consent to translations or replications or reproduction of my work on any other social media platforms and or make AI Bots without my explict consent and permission.

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yeonzzzn · 7 months ago

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confrontation: nishimura riki

a break the chain series: six / seven

pairing: niki x afab!reader word count: 3.2k

synopsis: with the king still unconscious and jay stepping up as the replacement, the six vampires struggle to hunt down the remaining of lilly’s army and trying to get information out of her. with a million things of their plate, niki and you take up a task to gather answers.

genre: established relationship, vampire!niki, vampire!reader

warnings: swearing, blood mentions, riki and reader being cute.

prt 1: vampires bleeding | prt 2: you complete me

“You know what?” Niki sighs, staring up at the blue sky.

“What?” you ask, looking over at your mate.

“I actually miss school.”

You sat up quickly, glaring down at him, “Did I hear that correctly?!?”

Niki rolled his eyes but smiled so wide as he sat up, “Yes you did,” he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him, “I didn’t stutter did I?”

“Don’t be an ass,” you teased, rubbing your nose against his, “Just never thought I would actually hear those words from you.”

Your mate chuckled and placed a kiss on your temple, “It’s a shock to me too. But I honestly very much rather be stuck in a classroom than doing with…all this.”

Both you and Niki sigh. It was true. You also wished nothing more than to be stuck in a classroom relearning the same bullshit over and over than having to be dealing with this war. It was draining, not just for you and Niki, but the whole pack. And with Heeseung still unconscious almost two weeks later…

“What are you thinking about, my love?” Niki asked, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, “I can see the gears turning.”

You sigh again, “What can we do? To help?”

Niki stared off into the distance. He wished he knew what could be done. To help Heeseung and his queen. To help Jay. To help Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Jungwon, and all the females in this pack. To get Lilly to talk. To find who the traitor is. To be of some help in whatever way possible. It was eating Niki alive. And with him being the youngest, what could he really actually do? His eyes lit up.

You faced your whole body towards him, crossing your legs underneath you, “I know that look, what did that mischievous brain of yours cook up?”

All Niki did was smirk, “I have an idea, but we’ll need to talk to Jay Hyung first.”

—

Jay grabbed a fist full of her dark red hair and flung her head back, hovering Heeseung’s blade over her throat, “Still not wanting to talk?”

Lilly chuckled. Sweat dripped down her face and her skin was pale. She hasn’t fed or drank since being trapped down here.

Jay scoffs, inching the blade closer, “I told you time and time again if you just give us the information we want, we’ll give you all the blood you desire.”

Lilly kept her smirk, “I'd rather die than spill what I know.”

“I can make that happen too,” he growled, barely touching the blade to her throat. She hissed as the metal burned into her skin. Jay kept it pressed there for several minutes before removing it and flinging her head forward, “Too bad for you, you’re valuable to us.”

Lilly was chained down to the floor, the chains made of the same metal as the king's weapons. If she even tried to break the chains, her hands would be completely burned.

“Why don’t you go ask the queen and the brat that’s mated to the youngest?” she spat, “Those traitors will tell you plenty.”

Jay quickly cupped her face and placed the blade on her right cheek, pressing it so hard against her skin Jay could hear the sizzling of her skin burning. Lilly cried out in pain, gritting her teeth together.

“Jay,” Jungwon said with a warning as he leaned against the wall by the door, crossing his arms.

Jay’s eyes flashed crimson and pulled away, “Don’t speak ill of our ladies.”

Lilly took a few deep breaths, tilting her head, “You’re trying so hard to fill the king’s shoes. It’s a pity, really.”

Now it was Jungwon who held a knife to the side of her face, his hand gripping her neck. Eyes crimson and fangs to their point, “I suggest you keep your damn mouth shut when it comes to speaking about the king in command,” he hissed, “And be grateful we are even being so gracious. Heeseung wouldn’t have been as merciful.”

Lilly knew that too. She studied Heeseung for the longest time after he became crowned king. Saw the lengths he went to protect what was his. Saw what he did to his now queen before they mated.

Jungwon shoved her back and walked towards the door, stopping beside Jay, “It’s almost time.”

Jay nodded, “I’m giving you one last chance, Lilly. Talk or you’ll go another day without blood.” She kept silent. So with a shrug, Jay and Jungwon walked towards the door, leaving her alone.

—

You watched as the oldest pack members searched the meeting room from top to bottom, checking for any cameras, mics, or any other bugs that could be used for listening and watching, thankfully finding that there were none.

“Okay,” Jungwon said, motioning for everyone to sit down, “Let’s begin.”

Niki sat down beside Jay, and you to your mates left, “Hyung,” Niki said, pulling Jay’s attention to him, “Are Jake and __ on duty?”

Jay nodded, “They are eating in front of her, trying to get her to break.”

Niki scrunched his nose at the cruelness, but knew it was what needed to be done. Each member and their mate (excluding the queen) have been taking turns watching Lilly during the day and overnight. With the possibility of a spy roaming the castle, they need all eyes on Lilly around the clock.

The queen quickly walked into the meeting room, “I am sorry for being late,” she quickly rushed to the other end of the table, “Had to wait for M to leave my side,” she sat down and looked over to the witch and elf, “How is the barrier on Heeseung’s room?”

They both smiled at the queen, “It’s holding up perfectly,” the witch said, taking Sunghoon’s hand in hers, “We double-checked his room before coming here, everything is in place and he’s okay.”

The elf nodded, “I would also be alerted if anyone who isn’t one of the pack members got too close to his room without permission. Everything is fine.”

The queen nodded, clearly worried for her mate.

“So,” Jay said, officially starting the meeting, “Has anyone gathered anything? Whether that is from any of the staff here at the castle or Lilly or anything else.”

The room fell silent and everyone glanced at each other. This was normal for each meeting. It was hard to gather information when there was no other information to begin with. It was a suggestion that Jungwon came up with two weeks ago about the possibility of having a spy running around here. But it’s also the only thing that made sense.

“My queen, YN,” Jay said, shifting forward in his seat, “I know I’ve asked both of you this multiple times, but is there anything you can remember about Lilly?”

The queen smiled, “Jay, I’ve told you many times that there is no need to address me as such when it’s just us. Heeseung has said so as well.”

Jay smiled back at her, “It’s gotten to be a habit being here, I apologize.” It’s become a big habit for everyone. The whole pack has had to stay on their toes since coming to this castle, always having their guard up and having to act in specific ways.

The queen looked over at you, “It’s hard to say anything about Lilly besides she was second to Dorian.”

You nodded with a sigh, “She wasn’t around much,” you looked over to Niki, him giving a nod that it was okay, then you looked over to Jay, “Being the youngest in the compound made it hard. I didn’t exactly have a voice and Dorian only used me to keep tabs on her enemies since I would be just disregarded as some kid.”

The memories flashed back to when you met Niki for the first time and how Dorian used you to get to Niki and get the information he needed. It all backfired quickly once you mated with Niki. Even worse once the queen had the red string slowly tying around herself and Heeseung. Dorian really didn’t stand a chance.

“She wasn’t around often, like YN said,” the queen continued, “I was third to Dorian, but I was with him more than she was. Lilly always had something else to do, or somewhere else to be. She was his eyes and ears on everything, after all.”

Jay sat back in his chest, bouncing his leg quickly at the frustration of it all. They were running in circles. Complete full circles.

Jay’s mate touched her hand to his knee, “Seong, it’s okay.” Her smile and touch were enough to relax him, his hand intertwining with hers.

Niki still wasn’t used to seeing Jay become so calm so quickly. His mate definitely changed that in him.

“What about any news on the rest of her army?” Sunghoon asked, “Jake and I were hoping we’d be the next sent out to look.”

Jungwon and Sunoo were the ones who were sent out earlier in the day. They came back covered in blood, so it’s safe to say it went well.

“We found one of their camps,” Sunoo said with a sigh, “But nothing to show where the other locations are.”

Jungwon nodded, “She was still in the middle of forming an army, so it might be safe to say there aren’t many left over. But yes, if Jay approves it, you and Jake can head out tomorrow.”

Jay nodded in approval, “Please do.”

The meeting ended quickly and everyone started to head out, all except Niki and you, catching Jay’s attention.

“We have something we want to talk about,” you said to Jay, your fingers gripping the sleeve of his shirt, “We want to help more.”

Jay looked back and forth between you and your mate, “What shenanigans are you two plotting?”

Niki just smirks and wraps his arm around your shoulders, “Ya know, just being the teenagers that we are.”

Jay chuckled, smirking back, “I am listening.”

—

To say you and Niki have been annoying is…an understatement.

But it was the perfect plan.

The way Niki told you and Jay, it would make it easier to watch the others. To sneak off somewhere and cause chaos to learn what they need to.

At first, it started off just you and Niki racing around the castle, running specifically past the meeting rooms when you both know there’s a meeting happening. Being loud with your feet stomping on the floor and how loud your laughs were. The racing turned into playing soccer in the lobby. Jake even joined a few times in passing. Which irritated the officials, but they minded their business besides scrunching their noses at you three. Because why would they say anything? You're in a pack with the king. Then soccer turned into baseball. Which Jake joined in as well and even Jay.

Which pissed off E the most. Jay was supposed to act as a king, not a child.

“You’re the king! Act like it!” E snapped at Jay after catching the baseball to quickly stop the game, “And you three!” he snapped pointing his index finger back and forth between you, Niki, and Jake, “Sports are for outside!”

Jay shrugged it off, taking the baseball back from E and tossing it to Niki, “Let them have fun,” E opened his mouth to protest but Jay burned his crimson eyes, “You won’t disrespect my family or my wishes.” And E left it at that.

You and Niki are now going on week two of the plan, and only so much information has been gathered. The most important one is that there’s a secret meeting that Niki figured out by the small number of keywords that he gathered while running chaotically around the castle and piecing conversations together.

“Hyung, how are we going to listen in on this meeting?” Niki asked down the bond only between him and Jay as they all sat at the dinner table with wine glasses filled with blood in front of each of them. The witch and elf had actual wine and boy are they a sight to see drunk.

The witch clung to Sunghoon with a massive smile on her face and Sunghoon just sipped his blood unfazed by his mate's silly behavior.

The elf’s face was slightly pink, but her people were used to drinking and having to overcome it, but she still giggled and laughed with Sunoo.

Jay smiled at his family before making a glance at Niki and sipping from his glass, “When is the meeting?”

“Tonight.”

Jay made another quick glance at Niki and then at you, “I have to watch Lilly tonight, you two will have to figure it out.”

“Hyung.”

Jay sighs, “Go sneak into the room and keep quiet, and don’t get caught.”

Without another thought, Niki took you by the hand and rushed you out of the dining room.

—

The two of you stood in the close on the far side of the king’s office. Or well, the previous king’s office. Niki hasn’t seen Heeseung use this office at all. And from the stories he’s been told, Heeseung avoids this office like the plague because of the memories it brings back. Niki doesn’t blame him.

To pass the time, you and Niki played rock, paper, scissors, or tried to tickle each other.

Honestly, it was obvious you and Niki were made for each other. Not only being stuck in seventeen-year-old bodies, but your humor and maturity levels are the same. It was a blessing, truly.

Niki cupped your face and squeezed your cheeks, giggling at the facial expression you were now giving him, “Shhh!!” you tried to hush his giggles through your squeezed cheeks, but it only made him giggle more.

You reached up and pinched his cheeks and twisted. A soft ouch escaping his lips and letting go of your face. But his giggles didn’t stop, slowly getting higher in pitch. “Shh!!” you tried again, now pinching his lips together but his smile forced your fingers to slip past his lips, “Nishimura Riki,” you whispered, once again cupping his face and bringing him closer to you, connecting your lips to his. And of course that calmed him down.

But his smile? Never faded away, “I am truly lucky to have been mated to you,” he whispered between the kisses, “I love you.”

You pulled back and placed your forehead against his, “I love you too, you silly duck.”

Before Niki could speak, the doors to the office opened. It was time.

Jay crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head down at Lilly, “It’s been four weeks. Give it up.”

Lilly was barely able to look up at him, her skin so pale and her body weak from the lack of blood, “Just kill me.”

Jay walked over to her, kneeling down to her level, “You know that’s not how our pack works,” he pulled the blade from his belt, twisting it between his fingers, “Give me the information I want, and I’ll give you blood. It’s a fair trade.”

She tried to keep her head held up, to keep her eyes open but failed. She knew this pack would be good on their word…but, “They’ll kill me anyways for getting caught. Might as well get it over with.”

“Who?” Jay asked, furrowing his brows in confusion, “Who would kill you anyways?”

Your and Niki’s eyes widened. You covered your mouth to keep from letting any sounds escape. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing and from whom.

Jay’s eyes widened, “What is their plan, Lilly? Speak the fuck up now!” his eyes turned crimson, fangs slowly coming to a point, “I am not fucking around anymore! Our youngest is spying on them right now!! SPEAK. UP.”

Lilly sighs, “They want the throne. Always wanted it. They used Dorian as their pon, and when Heeseung killed him that responsibility was thrown to me. They didn’t tell us who the king was, only what area of the world to find him. That was until Heeseung showed up and officially took the throne. It took us years of planning. The final part is happening tonight.”

“We need to tell Jay, now,” Niki whispered, you quickly cupped his mouth, pleading with your mate to keep quiet.

“What are they planning?” Jay whispered, taking hold of Lilly’s head and forcing her to look up, “Spill.”

“Heeseung. They plan to finish him off tonight. But not until they kill all of your pack first.”

Niki’s eyes widened even more, “HYUNG!!” he shouted down the bond, “JAY!!” there was no response. The bond felt fuzzy, empty.

“Niki and YN are in that office with them!” Jay shouted, taking a step away from Lilly and running his hands through his blonde hair, stressing over finding a way to protect the two youngest.

“They have the power to mask speaking down the bonds,” Lilly said, “They probably already know those two are in that room and put that power to use.”

Niki kept screaming down the bond, not just to Jay, but anyone who would listen, “SOMEONE!!!!” Niki looked at you, “YN, what is going on?!” You just look back at him, trying to read his eyes, making it clear that the bond was cut off.

Jay held his hands at the back of his head, pacing the room, “We have a fucking problem,” he said, “Niki and YN are in danger.” Everyone spoke at once down the bond.

Lilly looked at Jay with pleading eyes, “They found them.”

The door to the closet opened. Niki quickly pulled you to him, his eyes burning crimson and fangs on full display, “Back the fuck off!” He snapped.

There was a chuckle, “You think I didn’t know you were in here?” Another chuckle, “Guess my plans are starting early.”

Jay gritted his teeth, rushing to Lilly and placing the blade close to her neck, “STOP THEM!!”

“I can’t,” she whispered, “They already cut that bond that tied me to them.”

Jay was freaking out. His heart raced so fast he could hear the beat in his ears. He did this. He allowed the two of them to snoop around. He was supposed to protect them, and he failed.

Before Jay could say anything back to her, he was pulled away, the blade taken from his hand and being completely sliced through her neck, blood spilling to the floor.

“Heeseung?!”

The king barely turned to look at Jay, his eyes their bright gold, Lilly’s blood splattered over his face.

Heeseung looked back to Lilly, her dead body limp on the floor.

“Does everyone else—“

“Know I am awake? They do now.” He softly spoke, “And so does the traitor.”

Heeseung turned, walking back to the door, “How!?” Jay asked, quickly falling into step at the king's side.

“I had a dream that Niki was screaming for help, turns out it wasn’t a dream and all my suspicions have been true all along.”

“You knew?” Jay scoffed, “And you never said anything?!”

Heeseung quickly turned to face Jay, “I did what I had to in order to protect this family!” he snapped, “I had eyes on my ass twenty-four-seven, you think I had time to speak up?”

Jay shook his head, “Down the bond!”

Heeseung shook his head, “Their power not only cuts off that access, but reads when it’s being spoken down.”

It made sense. It all finally connected together into one piece.

“Now,” Heeseung said, turning back to the door, “Let’s go get our kids.”

— perm tlist: @alvojake @ikeuverse @woniebae @shawnyle @kangnina

@jwnghyuns @in-somnias-world @zyvlxqht @aaa-sia

@wonniethepoo @addictedtohobi @eneiyri @skzenhalove

@fakeuwus @cherry-park @vousty @ladyartemesia @criminalyun

@cmoundiamante @enhaverse713586 @wondipity @lhsvibez

@jaeyunq @rikizm @kaykay11sworld @pockettwinzz @vixialuvs

@seunghancore @enha-cafe @ohdeerhee @sunpov @zeeloveshee

@hxxsxxng @moonrisearies @brownsugarbaybee @nshmrarki

@vveebee @teddybeartaetae @kookify

— taglist: @jwnghyuns @en-happiness @aileeeeeeeeeeeee @honeybunnee @jaklvbub

#nikiriki #breakthechain #niki #nishimura riki #niki x reader #reader x niki #enhypen #enhypen x reader #reader x enhypen #enhypen fanfic #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #established relationship #vampire au #yeonzzzn writing

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the-kr8tor · 3 months ago

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I'm sorry about the last one I just got way too excited to express my admiration for your works, I forgot to check!! But I've checked now and I saw The "Imagine if Hobie was prowler" that actually sounds really cool!! I was thinking if you could write something about that, maybe Reader is someone who he cares a lot for but it turns out they're also fighting against each other, (I haven't actually tackled the whole Universe of spiderman so I was genuinely just thinking of Reader as someone with powers TvT) but yeah I got a bit curious about that, I'm not sure if you wrote about that yet since I haven't went in all the master list and hopefully I don't finish it yet cause I'd be left with the deep emptiness (I love all the series so finishing it while it's ongoing would devastate medhdhx) but if you did you can discard my message or if this is too much, that's alright!!

Oh and I'm really happy I didn't make you Uncomfortable it's my first time writing something to a writer and I got anxious TvT I hope you have a great day!!

No worries! You're good! I put my own spin on it, I hope you like it! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Prowler! Hobie Brown x gn! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw blood, cw violence, cw injury, tw death, Prowler! Hobie, Venom! Reader, ANGST.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The air runs cold, and your breath staggers in your throat. The fighting around you hasn't stopped, nor all the screaming, and bleeding flesh. But everything seems to cease when you see him. The noises deafen, debris and blood stilling in the air— Hobie in all his glory, covered in metal and crimson iron. Hobie, whose face is obscured by steel plates over his familiar face, purple smoke ebbing out of his suit. And yet, despite his rough and intimidating exterior, despite his sharp claws and sharper gaze, your heart still longs for him. He still feels like home.

Home, you haven't thought of it in years, the trees that dance in the wind, soft lavender wandering through the air. And your little house in the middle of the fields you once shared with him. A house that now ceased to exist, burned to ashes, nothing left but dark soot and blackened smoke that seemed endless. Ever burning, flames still snaking along the lavender fields, forever burying your memories with him under the red hungry flames. Those memories still live with you, deep down. You hope it still lives with him. If not, you'd rip it from your heart and hand it to him in your waiting ruby drenched palms.

“H-Hobie?” You ask in a broken tone, even though your soul knows him from where you stand. In between gore soaked bodies, bodies you've ripped and chewed yourself— he stands there motionless. You wonder if he still bears the warmth you used to hold in your arms.

The metal bridge creaks and squeaks, hinges about to give up from the stress of the fighting in its steel embrace. Tethering close to devouring every soul standing on its last life. You've felt the earth collapse years ago. If the ground fell from under you, would you notice?

Hobie doesn't answer, you see his chest rise and fall, gauntlets leaking blood. You don't know if it's his or someone else's, you just know it's not yours. Not yet. Would he hurt you?

You stand there, all worn out, arms bleeding and throbbing, legs trembling from the sheer pain. And yet, your eyes never leave his own mechanical mask, as if you can see the worry behind the steel curtains.

He stands there, heart ripped out, still beating atop the bodies laid out in front of him. He stands there, but he should walk towards you, run towards you and hold you. Hold you like he once had in that lavender field he once called home, hold you as if he didn't lose you all those years ago.

To live in his delusion, to never leave from the haze of the past. He longs for it, to stay where he once held you.

But the blackened tendrils coming out of your wounds is the one that he's fighting against. It curls around you, wrapping you in its mass. White eyes in place of your own that he sees in his dreams, sharp claws and lolling tongue— he doesn't see you anymore. Can't see you underneath the obsidian flesh of his enemy. He wonders if it's still you under it.

With a gutteral screech from the large mouth of the alien mass inhabiting your body, he takes his guitar from his back to pluck its strings. The noise could kill you, or it could liberate you. So he decides, and he plays.

The sound reverberates around the bridge, the creaking pauses for a moment, replaced by the ear piercing shrieks from the venoms. Hobie sees you crumble to your knees, tentacles of black slime ripped apart at the seams.

Your face is revealed under the mass, contorted into pain, the light in your eyes slowly fading as the creature feeds on your very being. Your nails dig into the slimy flesh, desperately trying to rip it out from your body. Eyes meeting with Hobie's, you nod for him to continue despite the blood spilling from your ears.

With bated breath, he strums again. More shrieking, more screaming, flesh torn apart, teeth chattering above the sound. His eyes never leave from your suffering as tears prick from his eyes. Grief snakes along his stomach up to his chest, pressing hard on his heart.

“Again!” You yell, ripping and gnawing at the agony filled venom. He follows, another strum, and another, one by one, venoms leave their hosts, and one by one, the bridge's wires collapse. But your own demon doesn't yield, it clings to you like a babe, holding onto you like a lifeline.

“C’mon!” Hobie stalks closer, plucking his strings over and over again despite your screams that would haunt his dreams. The venom wraps around you in its cold embrace, your own screams stifled with its arm over your mouth, choking you. “No!”

The bridge crumbles, someone tries to yank him away and take him to safety. But he shrugs them off, even if it means his own death.

“Hobie!” You manage to yell, “run!” It has you in a chokehold, dark veins ebbing from its touch towards your skin. It's killing you with it. Swallowing you in darkness, drowning you.

He abandons his guitar to dig you out of the mass. He rips out a chunk but it's immediately replaced and healed. Your muffled breaths can still be heard from under, he doesn't leave you. He won't leave you to die in the arms of the thing that took you from him.

Claws cutting and tearing, he heaves, breath stuck in his lungs. Yanking his helmet off, you see his face from the last pinprick of light. You wish there was a smile on his face instead of the desperation and fear. Still, you wished for home and you got it.

He pleads, and he calls for you, and his face is the last thing you saw before you fell into the suffocating depths.

The bridge collapses from under his feet, and he falls with you, holding onto you, plunging into the icy tides below. In the water, venom dissolves into nothingness, and he could finally hold you again as he joins you on the other side.

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antis0cial23 · 9 months ago

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Heart and Lungs

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: Reader is in a bad crash during a race that Lewis had to sit out

Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury, kinda dark, no use of names, religious themes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The world spun, just as her car did off the track. All confidence left her body with every roll of the car, thanking whatever angel that made the halo that kept her safe. her car crashing into a barrier with the noise of a thousand oceans, maybe a radio, rushing in her ears before nothing, the absence of everything. No sight, no sound, only a taste. A taste of blood settled deep in her bones. All she could do was accept it, and she did. Metallic and hot, sticky and wet. Everything came crashing down within seconds, but every roll of her car was years of her life. Blood. Red. Racing. The car. Crumpled, ruined. Expensive. She felt like she was on a cloud, light. Floating. Then the sun was shadowed. Dark. Cold. And for some reason, it hurt. Pain, sharp yet dull. Everywhere. Just like the dark it was all-encompassing. Final. Or was it?

He watched from the sidelines as her car spun out, rolling like waves from the far seas. Fear. Heavy, strong. He prayed to whatever god existed or would listen that she would be ok. He heard the gasps around him at the final crash of metal against metal, ringing out in sick harmony. He heard the echoes of questions sent to her radio. Everything echoed. Loud, big. His world shattered in seconds. Crumbling, fading. His vision blurred with black, eyes honing in on her mangled car, mentally on his knees, begging for anyone to listen to his prayers. He was quiet. Silent, empty. He watched the med cars speed by, thinking he would give her his lungs so she could breathe, his heart to hers could beat, his health so she could simply be. Be safe. Be alive. Be well. He sat still, watching. Unmoving, broken inside. He watched as they got her from the car, unconscious, Still, unmoving. Her visor broken, red leaking from under her helmet. Vivid, vicious. Blood. Her upper body resting on a medic's leg, he wished it was him. He wanted to be the one there with her, telling her he had her. Hell, he’d rather it be him unconscious and bleeding rather than her. She would be safe if it was. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be as blood was left in her wake. Like a sick path to find her, it trailed behind where she had been. She wasn’t dead, no. Not yet. Yet.

Let her be alive, his prayers changed as he saw her body in a bed. He prayed that her heart was beating, her lungs breathing because if they weren’t, he’d give her his. He’d always have her even if she didn’t have him. If they hit rough waters, he’d be the one to give his life to keep her dry, safe, and alive. Alive. Breathing. Please be breathing. And she was. Heart monitor beeping rhythmically, just like the seas of torment his mind sailed. They used to be kings and queens, ruling the world. But like ancient limestone, it all came down within seconds. He saw the cuts on her cheekbones, her brows, her forehead from the shattered visor. Dried blood stained her beautiful skin red, angry. They tormented him just like the gods who never answered. Who sat and watched as her life was barely spared. He cursed them and denounced each and every one. For if they were real, it would’ve been him. His lungs bruised, his heart damaged. Not hers, never hers. But gods were cruel. They took. Don’t take her from me. Her heart continued to beat; lungs continued to breathe. For now.

So lord when I die, I want to live on the outskirts of heaven. She thought. For the first time in days. Wildflowers and honeybees line the dirt roads, that’s where I want to hang my wings. Welcome me from my gates of iron to yours of pearl. Streets of coal to yours of gold. Blue skies and dogwood trees. Her mind wandered, no sound penetrating her skull. Her serenity. Please welcome me to fields of hay, green grass full of shade from the light of you. She wasn’t met with the light of the gates, their reflection but a distant memory. She was met with the light of the sun, shading her face with orange. Please take me still, welcome me to you. Her body hurt like no other pain she had experienced, besides a warm hand on hers, keeping her from truly fading. Maybe not yet. Maybe this is ok. The warmth squeezed her, her name on his lips. His. Him. Oh. He was there, watching over her from wherever she was, by her side. Her angel in the dark, her warmth in the cold. Her lungs when she couldn’t breathe, her heart when hers couldn’t beat. Him. Please don’t take me, not yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inspired and some lyrics used from

#formula one #formula 1 #formula racing #lewis hamilton #mercedes amg petronas #lh44 #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #Spotify

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madsmilfelsen · 6 months ago

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I think Rust is neat and all but what drew me in was his HANDS. Idk how to explain it, but something about the way he holds things and articulates makes me just. Stare at them. Like I just Know he has rough hands

alright babe, you want to talk about his hands, let’s talk about his hands via timeline

Obviously living in the bush of Alaska requires a lot of manual labor to survive, skin rubbing raw inside leather gloves, blisters from splitting wood, scars from his knife slipping on salmon (v real, I used to filet 500 salmon a summer and baby…. yew, my left hand has gotten nicked more than once— Travis and Rust had a fish camp on the Copper River, probably across the bridge from Chitna and a touch north, and lived way up river between Slana and Nabesna bc I’m making all this up right now and I said so) etc etc so his hands well worn before he got out, moved back to Texas and meets Claire snared by his weirdo allure and bizarre way of handling things— Sophia comes along and I bet he was washing his hands like a maniac, dry as fuck, probably worried his rough hands might make her fussy so held her with her little swaddling blankets at first (compensated with A LOT of skin to skin time but that’s a different ask), carefully petting her hair with just the tips of his fingers, down the bridge of her nose to make her go to sleep. Sophia loved his hands (like mother like daughter fr) could be occupied when he took her fishing by just letting her sit in his lap to play with his fingers, try on his wedding ring, ask why his nails are shorter than mommy’s or why they aren’t soft like mommy’s, map his calluses, trace the lines of his palms until he set a hook and watched him reel in dinner.

(Addition) hol up, hear me out— Sophia rooting around his bare chest and pacified with the curl of his knuckle, Sophia teething and gnawing on his fingers, Sophia learning to walk with her soft pudgy hands in his, Sophia squealing and giggling as he tickles her round lil tummy, Sophia’s only sitting still to get her hair brushed but only for daddy— Rust’s hands becoming the most abused part of his body after she’s gone

Crash era— this man does not give a shit about his hands, the most treatment they get is when he taped them together after breaking a finger, had a punching bag for obvious reasons and beat the shit out of it no gloves no tape constantly bruised. Not a stranger to working with mechanics (in Alaska, Travis would make sure he could keep his equipment running— boat engines, four wheeler oil changes, changing snow mobile tracks etc) and probably took his bike apart and put it back together just to make sure he could be Authentic, different calluses with new tools, divots in his skin lost to the unforgiving scraping bite of metal, hissing when he gets transmission fluid in his split knuckles

1995– habitual hand washing returns, dry as hell, his wrists probably crack and bleed in the winter (very very very rarely is annoyed enough to actual do something about it, probably had to bleed on one of his files— he’d use Johnson and Johnson baby lotion becuase that’s he only shit he knew, definitely drunk cried about it at least once, before sucking it up and swtiching to Vaseline), pull up bars give calluses at the base of the fingers/tops of the palms, just does calisthenics because who the fuck wants to buy equipment. Does all the upkeep on his truck (and thinking about it, this would be the first time he’d be like Alone alone in a long while, no handlers, no Iron Crusaders, no backstory upkeep, no dad, no wife, probably takes truck parts inside and cleans them on his kitchen counter because no one is there to say what the fuck are you doing— “we don’t mind being alone” okay Okay sure honey) Makes it worse by the talcum powder in his rubber gloves or licking his fingers to go through case files or staying too long in the dry archives where he can’t smoke so probably tapping his mouth, rubbing circles on his knuckles with his thumb or running it along his nails— don’t know what flavor of adhd that man has a strangle hold on but he can’t sit entirely still, fingers moving with the bits of his mind that aren’t occupied to keep himself from distraction, pretending he didn’t lose his patience with his fatherhood.

2002– Laurie :) home girl said that’s enough! Probably got recommendations from surgeons and plys him tins of hand salve, he doesn’t like the greasy feeling, but his girl is askin’ he won’t say no babey!

2012– full circle, back to them Alaskan fishing boat hands, type of hands that snag fabric (my husband isn’t a mechanic but does work with his hands and I can’t wear silk around him) and hair gets caught on, the man does not own a brush, finger combs his hair once a week and puts that shit in a hair tie, done with it.

#you didn’t ask for any of this but my first cup of coffee was really good #answered #rust cohle

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procyonloser · 7 months ago

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Adamsapple mini ~space~ au that maybe I'll adapt into an actual fic after I'm done with eve of Adam.

Read more below the cut

Klaxons were blaring and the ship was painted in flashes of red and blue. His soldiers were running around like headless fucking chickens, trying to contain the fires and the leaks before they got out of hand, but bodies lay on the ground and they were drifting on no life support.

"Sir!?" His first officer screamed, holding her bleeding arm. Her eyes were wide in fear, fury, and a resolution that was quickly leaving him. But, they still shared a similar need for revenge.

They were outgunned. The traitors and outcasts had won, the scum of the fucking galaxy. Disgusting hybrids and freaks.

And the worst of all of them...

Adam stumbled to the front of his ship, stepping over the body of his navigator. He'd not live much longer, a piece of metal had gone straight through him in the last barrage. Lucifer's lead ship, the Morning Star, stayed locked onto them. He'd gotten a few good hits in on Charlie's ship, she'd not be able to warp out of here.

Adam stared out the window, and decided he had one song left in him.

"Attention, this is your fucking Captain speaking. Abandon ship. Get to your escape pods and get your asses back to Peter's Gate space station." Adam barked out, feeling a sharp pain digging through him with every word. Lute started to protest behind him, but he carried on. "I'm not leaving the ship, I wouldn't survive the trip anyway. Lute is your new acting Captain. Now - fucking go already!"

There was chaos as his soldiers realized all hope was lost and the fight was over for them. Lute had tears running down her face, but Adam just shook his head.

"I gave you an order. Get out of here unless you want to die too." Adam said, without looking back up at her. Instead, he focused on yanking the chuck of metal out of his stomach. His white and gold suit had been stained a deep red. The only spot of human blood on the ship.

"Sir-" Lute moved closer, but Adam just flopped down into what was left of the Captain's chair.

"I'm not going down without one last trick up my sleeve. Get out of here before I bleed out. I'm giving you one minute to get to warp." Adam finally met her gaze with a weary grin. She knew what it meant, and it took her a moment to find the courage to do what she knew she had to.

Leave.

By the time he saw her escape pod launch from the port, and eventually flash away in a beam of light, Adam's vision had grown hazy. His entire body felt cold from blood loss, or maybe it was just the systems of the ship failing in the depths of space.

Either way, he had enough in him to punch in the self destruct codes.

Hopefully, he'd damaged enough of their ships warp cores that one wouldn't be able to flee, maybe even Charlie's ship. He doubted Lucifer's ship was damaged enough, but he could always dream. That's about all he'd be doing soon.

Adam sighed and looked out the window, wondering what Lucifer was thinking right now. It didn't need to be like this, if he hadn't rebelled, hadn't fucked Lilith and made that revolting hybrid. Lucifer could have been King of more than just the trash of the Galaxy. Lucifer had been more than that to Adam, once upon a time.

"I'll see you in hell, Lucifer." Adam said to himself, closing his eyes, as the countdown neared zero.

But explosion followed, none that Adam remembered. Which meant, he thought, that he'd died beforehand. Or maybe the nuclear blast was enough so that he died instantly before his brain or body had the chance to catch up with the feeling.

So, then, why was he thinking?

Adam opened his eyes to a bright white light, which he remembered from ancient human history as the description of an afterlife, before they'd mostly given up on religions. Two pairs of eyes seemed to appear above him, floating there in the brightness.

"God?" Adam mumbled in confusion.

"No, but you can call me that if you'd like, sweetheart." Lucifer said mockingly, and Adam's vision became more clear. "I saved your sorry ass before your ship went kablooey. You're now a prison of my Kingdom and my ring of coalition planets, Adam. We'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on. How's mercy taste?" Lucifer's grin was sharp, pointed, predatory.

Adam remembered that ancient humans used to have another name for the devil.

Maybe he was in hell.

#adamsapple #hazbin hotel adam #my fics #adamsapple space au #to be named i guess IDK #fanfic #lucifer x adam #adam hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #adam x lucifer #guitarduck

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softmangoes · 10 months ago

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cabin fever | eden x defiant!pc

18+ only

summary: you finally slip free from your leash. eden finds you not long after.

includes: defiant!fem pc, captive to lovers, violence, animal death, pov switches, blood, first-aid, a very touch-starved eden

author's note: this is my very first DOL fic and of course it had to include my favorite forest husband. this was so fun to write, so please let me know what you think! 🧡

the large man pushes you back into the cabin before he falls to the floor with a dull thud. his hunting jacket is dark with blood flowing from an angry gash in his shoulder. you watch him, your knees stinging from scraping against the wooden planks, but he does not get back up.

behind the strands of his dirt-caked hair, you see one of his eyes trained on you.

"is this what you wanted?" he says, voice strained. "to run away?"

a part of you still wants to. with him in this vulnerable state, you're pretty sure you can.

ever since he had first dragged you into the cabin, you had spent hours weakening the leash with a flint arrowhead you managed to find near your post. finally, after days of being fucked against your will, you managed to slip free out of the cabin and into the woods.

it had not taken him long to notice you were gone. in your desperation, you did not think things through. he was a hunter, after all. of course he would find you.

and when he did, he had yanked you from the forest floor, kicking and screaming, gripping you so tightly that your shirt had ripped and your skin became bruised with his fingertips.

and now he's here in front of you, half conscious. you look at him, panting softly and bleeding out onto the floor. despite the pain he must be in, he's still staring at you.

"get away from her," he had growled to the onslaught of snapping teeth. "she's mine."

you had watched the wolf lunge onto him, sinking its teeth into his skin. in the scuffle, he had lost his grip on his rifle. you picked it up, the metal cold in your hands, before training its sight at the writhing struggle between beast and man.

in that moment, you could have ended it all. but before you could pull the trigger, you heard a sudden snap of bone. the great wolf went limp, its last breath a pained whine. with a huff, eden pushed its body off of him and took you by the collar.

"you had your chance," he said, voice hollow. "but i won't die that easily."

right now, you could get up. he could watch you leave. in his current state, it would be impossible for him to follow you.

a part of you wants to hate him, but there's something in the way he looks at you - like he's afraid, ashamed even - that makes you get on your knees and crawl to him.

"what...?" he manages.

"don't make me regret this," you say before tearing off a piece of your shirt and pressing it to the wound.

he does not cry out. blood, warm and red, wets your fingers but you do not stop. you feel his hand wrap around your wrist and for a second, you think he's going to snap it just like he did with the wolf's neck, but he just keeps it there. his palm is rough with calluses, his knuckles silvery with scars. you keep the pressure steady all while he watches you silently.

once the bleeding has stopped, you wipe your hands on your shorts and go to the kitchen to retrieve a jar of poultice and a jug of water. on the first night you spent in the cabin, you remember that he had applied some of it to cuts you sustained during your time in the forest. they had healed quickly after that.

gingerly, you unbutton his shirt to expose the wound. seeing him bare isn't anything new to you, but this was different.

"an hour ago, you wanted to kill me," he says. it's a statement, but also a question. you don't give him an answer.

his chest is sticky with drying blood, but you manage to peel away most of his shirt from the gash. he winces as you do this, grunting softly under his breath.

at the orphanage, you would bandage the little ones whenever they came crying to you with cuts and bruises. one time, robin had slipped into your room, tears in his eyes, as he held up an arm marred by a deep cut from biking too fast down a hill.

all of them had hissed in pain from your ministrations while trying to heal their affliction, but not eden. he was silent, giving you nothing else more than breathy huffs.

you wash the wound with water, watching as dirt and debris flow away. once it's clean, you apply the poultice, tearing off another strip of your shirt to wrap it around the torn flesh.

there is no fear you sense from him, no anxiety at this angry wound - only a weary resignation. it's an exhaustion that you can't help but find familiar.

eden was not afraid of death, but he had a hard time trying to figure out why he was still alive.

hours later, as the dawn light filtered through the window, he felt rather than saw your attempt at giving him first-aid.

it was shoddy work, but satisfactory: the result of the exhausted desperation he saw in your eyes as you worked to patch him up for reasons he could not understand.

but why?

at this point, the pain had significantly lessened due to the poultice and he could finally gather his thoughts. eden expected that your kindness would end at the last knot tied for his dressing. if there had been any moment you could have chosen to fled, last night would have been perfect.

instead, he was surprised to see your sleeping form curled up in front of the fireplace. something like relief made him relax at the sight of you, dirty but uninjured. but there. still there.

"you didn't leave," he says, his eyes still closed.

you blow into the wooden cup, sending curls of steam into the air. it's a simple broth you made with mushrooms from the barrel, herbs from the garden, and leftover rabbit bones and gristle leftover from a previous meal - nothing special, but nourishing enough.

"open your mouth," you instruct, bringing a spoonful of the hot soup to his lips.

earlier, you had somehow managed to prop him up with some cushions without disturbing himself and his injury. it had been a challenge - the man was so huge - but whatever was in the poultice must have kept him asleep.

he opens his mouth and lets you feed him, groaning in satisfaction as he swallows. a lock of his hair falls over his face, so you push it away and let your hand rest on his jaw to ready him for another serving. the pad of your thumb presses against a slash of soft scar tissue.

"are you okay?" you ask when his breath hitches.

eden's eyes open. they bore into you, wary. you can feel them shift from your face to your bare skin. the events of last night had ruined your shirt, so you were only in a pair of shorts and a sports bra.

"i'm fine." he licks his lips. his gaze falls on the old scar sliced across your neck, a memento from bailey. it's something the hunter would stare at often whenever he would take you. "just give me more."

hours later, you're still not sure why you're keeping him alive. perhaps you felt sorry for him, a man all alone in the wilderness. perhaps it was because if you left, there was hardly any life for you to go back to. at this point, you were definitely behind on your weekly payments, and bailey would not let that slide without making sure you would regret it.

you dip the wash cloth into the warm water, wringing it before gently wiping the hunter's face. blood and grime disappear to reveal scattered scars, a mole, and tawny skin made golden by hours in the sun.

in the weeks you had been held captive by this man, you had never seen his face this close. his features are strong - a sharp jaw, a nose that looks like it had been broken once, and cheeks framed by long locks of dark hair.

despite all the reasons he's given you not to think so, you find him beautiful.

you don't want to admit it, so you tell yourself that the heat that spreads across your face is not from seeing the strong, corded muscles of his bare chest, but the fatigue earned from another day of caring for him.

that was it. that was all.

when he comes to, eden sees an angel. her skin is sweet, warm. her touch is gentle, a perfect palm pressed against his forehead. she is beautiful, ethereal. a blessing.

she is everything he has never deserved.

when she opens her mouth, soft lips like fresh petals in the spring, she says, "eden, you're burning up."

the sound of his name is nothing short of salvation.

"fuck!" she says, voice drifting off into the distance. "fuck fuck fuck!"

something like glass presses against his mouth. he turns away.

"why aren't you swallowing it?" she curses. the next thing he sees is her tipping a small amber bottle to her face.

then: warmth. soft petals press against his lips and he gasps at the closeness, at her scent encompassing all of his senses. a tongue probes at his teeth and he opens himself to receive her offering.

sweet liquid fills his mouth: valerian, oregano, echinacea, honey. the taste is similar to the antibiotic tincture he keeps in his pantry.

he takes his good arm and steadies her against his body, pulling her deeper into the kiss. she makes a sound like she's surprised and he feels her hands cup his jaw. he does not deserve any of it, but he wants more. he wants all of her.

"eden," she breathes, pulling away. the angel wipes her wet mouth with the back of her hand, scarlet coloring her cheeks. she rolls off of him.

the absence of her warmth is agony, but before he can call for her, sleep takes him once again.

the next morning, you're on top of eden with the flint arrowhead pressed against his neck.

you do not think about the kiss. you do not think about the way he held you as you forced the medicine into his mouth.

in fact, you could end this. right now, you could take the cabin for yourself. there are enough provisions to last you until you find a way to figure out how to live here. all you have to do is -

"do it," he says, eyes clear and watching you. they look like storm clouds. like morning fog. like the water of the crystal lake where he found you.

you pause, hesitant.

for the first time since he brought you here, his eyes soften.

"someone did that to you, didn't they?" he asks, voice thick with fatigue. "they hurt you."

somehow, you know he's talking about the scar on your neck. you remember bailey pinning you to the wall, his pocketknife carving your skin after you bit him for daring to lay his hands on robin.

"i know what that's like," he says, averting his gaze. there's a note of shame in his voice. "to feel helpless."

you see the silvery scar along his jaw.

and then you break. because in the end, you are both just two animals with the same wounds.

you toss the arrowhead away and it clatters on the wooden floor. then you replace your hands at his neck with your mouth against his.

there's a moment of hesitation before he kisses you back, hungry and desperate.

"more," he growls, and you obey by pulling your bra off over your head.

you lean over him and he takes your breast into his mouth, lapping slowly at the soft bud of your nipple with his warm tongue. you mewl, tightening your thighs around his torso.

when he sinks his teeth into your skin, you gasp, taking his hair into your fist. it's going to bruise, but you don't mind.

"more," he says again, licking between your breasts. you feel his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts and after a moment of shuffling, you oblige.

he grips your thighs as he lowers you down to his face, his breath hot against your wet slit.

moments after he brings his tongue to your clit, you come shaking and whimpering.

although he's fucked you more times than you can count, this is different.

before, he would never take your pleasure into account and would ram into you until he was satisfied. even then, it would not be enough for his appetite. he'd pull you to him for more, no matter how sore or hurt you were.

but now, he's licking small circles in this part of you that aches for his touch, pulling you deeper into him as you shudder. it's exhilarating. you can't get enough of it.

"eden," you breathe, your voice trembling from coming undone once again.

"mm?" he pulls away. his eyes are hazy with lust - storm clouds rolling through the sky, rumbling with thunder.

"i want you inside of me," you tell him, ready for the lightning.

gently, he guides you onto your back. the floor is still warm from his body, the cushions you placed a few days ago soft against the back of your head.

he sheds his shirt, careful not to undo the dressing. you help him unbutton his pants. there's a scar on his hip and you think about biting it.

"are you sure you'll be okay?" you ask, worried that the wound would reopen. "i don't want you to get hurt."

"i'll be fine," he says, trailing kisses along your neck. "as long as you're here to take care of me."

there's a gentleness to his voice, an implied question. you're tempted to say yes, but you're not yet quite sure.

eden presses into you, his length brushing against your clit. you grip his arms, his muscles tight under your fingers, as you moan.

"let me hear them," he breathes. his voice is soft, tender - this is not the roughness of the man who became your captor. "you were always so quiet before."

eden groans, thrusting himself into you with one long slide. his dark hair cascades over you as he lowers his body to meet yours.

"take me," you say, biting your lip at the sheer pleasure curling hot within your core. you buck your hips towards him, meeting him at the hilt. "all of me."

it's his turn to gasp. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face to yours as he rocks his hips into you.

you kiss the scar on his jaw, tangle your fingers in his hair. the scent of him is earthy, like the forest. you wouldn't mind getting lost in him.

eden huffs, pleasure building within the both of you. you're holding him like that when you begin to come, his name whispered between your lips.

it's not long after that he climaxes, too, burrowing his face into your neck once the shaking stops.

there are a few moments of silence. you hear nothing else but the wind howling outside.

"don't run," he says. so quiet, just barely louder than the crackling of the fireplace.

your bodies are warm and sweat-slicked, glistening with the glow of your embrace.

"i'll protect you." his lips trace the scar on your neck. "i'll provide for you." his mouth brushes yours. "all you have to do is stay." when he lifts his face, you see his eyes shining in the firelight. he's desperate, and you get the sense that he will not ask again.

you think of the life you had before you were taken - the beatings, the stealing, the lying you had to do in order to survive. was it really worth going back to? could you hope to build a new future, one warm with firelight?

your hand finds his. his fingers are strong, callused, but they're gentle. they could be yours, if you want it.

to your surprise, a blush colors your hunter's cheeks. in this moment of tenderness, you find your answer.

"i'll stay," you tell him, like it's a promise. like it's a vow.

#dol eden #eden the hunter #eden the hunter x pc #dol eden x pc #degrees of lewdity eden #degrees of lewdity fic #my writing #i just really like the thought of eden and pc building their relationship slowly #also i know this man is hella strong but thinking about pc patching him up makes me weak #scarred pc

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aita-blorbos · 1 year ago

Note

(Cw mild brief descriptions of gore)

AITA for knowingly sending my son into a death trap?

I (61M) have owned this rental location for animatronics for several years ago, and have been using them for experiments for a while since one of them killed my daughter and got the restaurant shut down. Now, recently they've been becoming increasingly aggressive towards me, as I give them controlled shocks to keep them in line, and they're partially made from the souls of five children I murdered. And so, I can no longer go down there.

So what I did is asked my son (26M) to head down there, telling him that he could put his sister (died several years ago) back together. What ended up happening was the animatronics down there fused themselves into one being, scooped all of my son's organs out, and wore him as a skinsuit while his body rotted away, before leaving his corpse on the sidewalk. He died, of course, but came back to life, and proceeded to send me a voicemail threatening my life.

Now, I know I do not come across well here. But you must understand, there was much on the line for me. Did I know my son would most likely die if he was sent down there? Of course! He's always resembled me, after all. And was I the one to cause the deaths of the souls haunting the animatronics, including my daughter's? Absolutely. But I am a scientist first and a father, and had I not been able to keep my experiments going... knowledge is an immensely meaningful pursuit. You expect me to give that up, for what?

And my son isn't blameless either. You see, when he was fourteen, he played a practical joke on my other son, and caused his death. And to send me, his father, a threatening voicemail because he's angry I didn't tell him everything is simply disrespectful. Why, that voicemail prompted me to take apart the other animatronics that had the dead childrens' souls, and they proceeded to corner me, making me fear for my life! I went into the suit that I used to kill those children because of their threats, and it painfully slaughtered me, causing me to bleed out slowly and painfully! How could anyone side with him for that? All this grief I've been given, all because my son decided to threaten my life after I sent him into a deathtrap.

Now, of course, I am still alive. My body is bleeding out and barely functional, but one thing you must know about me is that I am an immensely determined man. I refuse to succumb to something as menial as death. Even if it did take me for a moment, even if it took me for several years, I'll never let myself simply fall into its jaws. No matter what, I'll always come back.

This brings up the fact that my son is still alive, and functionally immortal, all thanks to me! Granted, his body is rotting away and he's become a shambling corpse that's just barely keeping itself together, but he is still alive. And my death was far more painful- his organs getting scooped out only hurt for a moment, while I've been left with sharp pieces of metal and electronics piercing my entire body as I bleed out. He has the nerve to think he's entitled to hunt me down after I caused his painful death, while MY death was far worse?

And so, I return to the question I asked at the start of this post. I knowingly sent my son into a deathtrap, and he proceeded to send me a threatening voicemail. I truly and honestly do not think I was in the wrong here, but I find your feedback extremely valuable. AITA?

(Fandom: FNAF)

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality #child death

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assaily · 9 months ago

Text

Feeding the fandom some more. :)

Working Title: Hide the Morning from the Stars Colloquial title: Mute Five Themes: I don't even know anymore

This is a Very rough draft. Like so rough I don't even think my tensing is consistent throughout. This is Five's loneliest first year of retirement ever. And also him hanging out with Grace.

Major warning for the beginning for suicidal thoughts and behaviors.

~Post Mute~

Five takes the gun out of his mouth, his tongue flexing against the heavy iron tang of metal. The weight of it is familiar and cold in his hand as he sets it down on the edge of the sink, his shaking fingers pressing the safety back into place.

He’s just being dramatic. It’s all those teenage hormones mixing badly with all the trauma Five honestly didn’t think he’d live long enough to have to deal with. Oh, and one hell of a hangover. That’s all it is, dramatics. If he thinks for a minute, plans this out, he realizes how horrible of an idea it is.

He can’t make Mom clean his brain matter off the walls. That would be cruel, even for him. Dramatics. Besides, his siblings would hear the gunshot. He doesn’t really want them to find him. Klaus would summon him before he had a chance to cross over and they’d give him a ream of shit for making such a mess. The idea of being yelled at again is exhausting.

“Can’t you have done this at a hotel or something?” He can imagine them saying to his corpse, scoffing and shaking their heads in disappointment. They’re right, of course, he shouldn’t do this at home.

He sighs, closing his eyes against the judgment staring back at him through the mirror. He tries to settle the shaking in his body but can only seem to draw it in, not vanquish it. He’s never really calm anymore. He wasn’t much before, but at least he could pretend.

These days it feels like every defense he’s ever built for himself has been stripped away, leaving him raw and naked and fragile in ways he can’t compute. It makes him nasty and hateful, covering himself in glass so that the moment someone reaches out, they bleed. He wants to be normal, he wants to be able to have a conversation with his siblings without thinking they’re judging him, and without picking a fight. He wants to scream and cry and beg them.

But he’s not sure what he would beg for, only that he wants something desperately, but something else inside of him, something old and stalwart and terrified refuses to let him ask. So he picks fights, he’s nasty without knowing why, and his siblings hate him for it.

He opens a drawer below the sink and tucks the little ruger beneath a pile of clean washcloths. This used to be his and Ben’s bathroom, but he’s the only one that uses it now. The others don’t really come up here, even less now that the honeymoon period has passed and they have no desire to keep him company anymore.

Allison mostly lives in California now, Viktor lives out there too, but they both come to visit every couple of months, staying for a week at a time. Diego lives outside the house with Klaus, and recently Luther found a job that would pay him enough to afford his own apartment. He hasn’t moved out yet, but he’s actively looking.

This is what Five wanted, them living their lives and moving on, but he has to remind himself like he forgot. He wanted to give them the opportunities he never had, and he succeeded. He’s not sure why it feels so terrible now, but he suspects it’s only a symptom of the sickness sitting like a rot in his bones.

He makes a point of not looking at himself, wetting his hairbrush under the faucet in an attempt to tame his bedhead. The scratch of the bristles against his skin hurts, so he pressed harder.

Allison and Viktor are at the end of their visit, and everyone is in the house. They’d be gone by tonight, and the house would go back to the coffin it was without the others, but in the meantime, Five wanted to look at least a little put together for them. He doesn’t want them to worry, but with the constant arguing he figures he can get away with less and less grooming.

His hair is getting long and he hasn’t really had the energy to cut it yet. It’s getting a little annoying, the way it falls into his eyes and curls at the nape of his neck. He’d go to a barber if he thought he could get through the encounter without snatching the scissors away and ending the life of the poor girl unlucky enough to draw the short straw.

When he finishes, he finally looks back at himself. He still looks like garbage, his skin an unhealthy pallor, accentuating the dark circles weighing down his eyes. The water managed to tame some of the mess of his hair, but it’s obviously greasy, flakes of dandruff like ash on his scalp. His reflection glares back at him, anger and disappointment like a stone in his stomach.

He really is a dramatic bastard. Today of all days, he figured he’d leave it in the drawer. Playing the wishing game with all his siblings home. He can’t even deny that of the cry for attention it is. Disgusting, really. His siblings could probably smell him rotting from here.

He considers a shower. It would make him feel better, a little more human at least, before he goes downstairs and has to pretend at it. The idea of getting wet, and having to put his clothes back on with wet skin makes him grimace. He doesn’t want to be cold either, because he can never seem to get warm. No use making it worse.

He flicks the light off and cracks the door behind him as he leaves. He shuffles back to his room to find something cleaner to wear. He should have washed his face, but now that he’s away from the mirror, he doesn’t have the energy to go back to it.

Mom keeps an ever revolving source of clean clothes for him, so that part of his routine is easy at least. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it, it’s the middle of winter so that means layers, and Five likes layers. They don’t really keep him warm, but that’s normal. No, he likes them because it’s a little like putting on a suit of armor. It’s just fabric, but it still manages to trick some animal part of his brain into thinking he might be a little safer. No more warm, but far less likely to freeze.

Which is an odd quirk, considering his insistence to play the wishing game every fucking morning.

In his defense, he doesn’t usually pull the gun out. He usually he just stares at the whelp in the mirror, wondering why the fuck he’s still here when he feels this horrible all the time. Then he bucks up, cleans up, and moves on with his day.

The ruger is just… He put it there in case of emergencies. Doesn’t hurt to have a few weapons hidden around the house in case the commission decides to come knocking again. He’s not sure when he started pointing it at himself. It’s a bad habit. There are better ways, less violent ways. Ways that don’t make a mess for his family to clean up after him.

He’s just being dramatic. That’s all it is. Nothing more. Being a teenager sucks. He remembers how much better things got when his hormones weren’t through the roof, making his emotions sharp and fragile all the time, making the loneliness so much harder to ignore.

This too shall pass, he would always say to himself. Over and over, like a prayer to an unloving universe. Please, just let it pass. Five is pretty sure he doesn’t really want to be alive anymore, but he also hates wanting to die. It puts a grayish filter on everything, on every thought and interaction. He’s alive, and hates living. Worse than surviving and already feeling dead. There’s a certain numbness to the in-between space of not wanting to be alive, but not wanting to kill himself either, and he yearns for it now in the throes of a worse agony.

But again, he’s just being dramatic. Pesky hormones. This too shall pass and all that.

He dresses quickly, changing from yesterday’s sleep rumpled long sleeves and sweaters into cleaner ones. He reuses a layer, the fabric of a knitted shirt warm in his nearly numb hands and it’s not something he wants to waste. The bottom hem on the back is dirty, and there’s a food stain on the front of it. It still smells vaguely like the alcohol he drank last night, but he puts it on as a middle layer. His hands are easily swallowed in the outer layers, and he has the idea some of it might belong to Diego. He stole a number of garments from them all last fall, and plans to give them back at the end of spring, if he makes it that long.

Spring still feels so far away, it’s hard to think that far ahead.

Five looks like shit, and he feels like shit, but he still dares Diego to say anything about it when he arrives downstairs. He walked the first part, then warped the last floor into the kitchen once he got close enough. The air was warmer down here, the heaters worked better on the ground floors, and no one had lived in the upper floors until recently. It was his first winter home, and he almost wonders if it’s worth trying to fix. Might be easier to just move, but he likes his bedroom high above the street. He spent a lot of last summer drinking on his fire escape; it’s familiar in a wildly unfamiliar world.

“Hey,” Diego greets, giving him an appraising look but not saying anything about the fact that Five’s wearing one of his sweaters.

Five nods a greeting before he busies himself pulling a mug from the cupboard and getting a cup of coffee. The pot’s still on and half-full, likely courtesy of Mom, so it’s a short lived distraction. He almost wishes he put something in his coffee so he has an excuse to linger without making it awkward.

“I heard you and Allison got into a fight last night,” Diego says, a hint of sardonics in his voice. “Well, pretty sure the whole block heard.”

Five grimaces behind the rim of his mug, throat too tight to take a sip. It seems he’s always fighting with someone.

“Nothing to say, huh?”

Five’s pretty sure he said enough last night, regardless of how little he even remembers. Might be time to lay off drinking, even as he already wishes for something to put in his coffee. He shrugs his shoulders, throat still tight and getting tighter. It’s almost hard to breathe and his head is pounding.

Diego sighs, sounding exhausted. “Look, I’ve been talking the othe–”

Five doesn’t hear the rest, pulling himself through a tear in space. He stumbles out the other side, managing to set the coffee on his desk before his knees buckle and he topples to the floor. He lays there for a while, wheezing softly and trying to catch his breath. There isn’t much going through his head, besides how grateful he is that he saved his coffee. There was no way in hell he was going down for another.

He helps Mom with chores in the evenings, usually after Luther’s gone to bed and the house is painfully silent. She hums while she works, washing the dishes and cleaning up after dinner. Five sits in with her, finishing up any leftover in the pots or pans. He follows her like a ghost back upstairs, and helps her fold laundry. The laundry room is usually pleasantly warm, and Five sometimes dozes off listening to Mom hum, sprawled out on a table.

When she’s finishes with all that, she heads into the library and settles down on a couch someone had moved there in the months following their return. This is a newer part of her routine, one that Five created with his presence and can’t make himself feel bad about. The blanket draped over the back is a deep verdant green and pleasantly soft texture.

Mom settles on one end, picking up a book from the table besides the couch. He’s not sure when she started reading, or if she always did that and he just didn’t remember. For some reason it makes her seem more human. Sometimes she reads heavy tomes of obscure information, sometimes it's children’s fantasy.

Five collapses onto the couch beside her, leaning his weight against her side and sighing in the deepest relief as she wraps her arm around his shoulders. He beyond caring at this point, and Mom’s not one to judge. He rests his body against her’s for a while, breathing with her simulated breath, forcing himself to relax and finding it hard.

He still can’t get himself to stop shaking, and now with an arm around him, his vulnerabilities and hurts come bubbling up like blood from a wound. He can’t pull it in, his hands shake horribly in his lap, and clasping them together just seems to make it look worse.

She never opened her book, and she senses his distress instantly, something he hates and can’t help but be grateful for. She doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, merely pushes the book away and turns toward him to give him her full attention.

It’s too much and he nearly begins to sob.

She shushes him gently when he swallows it down, one of her hands tracing his cheek before pulling him to rest his face against her. He wraps his arms around her back, clinging to her like a child, like he never had before and feels so stupid to do now. He can’t stop himself, it all hurts so much and he just wants it all to end. This doesn’t make him feel better, but it makes him feel something else beside the horrifying nothing eating at his bones.

She runs a hand through his hair and down the nape of his neck. He feels her hand pause and come back to his kneck, searching for his pulse. He pulls away, both out of confusion, and to allow her more access. Her face is neutral, but she frowns minutely at him before tucking his head against her.

“You’re experiencing heart palpitations,” she says, not at all asking.

He was ignoring up until now, the way his chest was tight and his heart was doing uneven little leaps and lurches. It was hard to get a full breath in, constricting in his throat, too. He nodded against her, swallowing hard when the words refused to come.

“You’re temperature is a little elevated. How are you feeling darling?”

Horrible, he tried to say, but while his mouth worked around the word, his throat spasmed silently.

#yeah i absolutely am in a different tense by the end lmao #tua #tua fanfic #the umbrella academy #fanfiction #five hargreeves

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lowcosmic · 1 year ago

Text

—— stay with me . ; shuichi saihara

“ shuichi gently opened your dorm door, his breath catching in his throat. ”

— 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: shuichi loves you tons. so of course, he’d never want you to be hurt. but when he sees those scars on your arm, other people hurting you may be the least of his worries.

— 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : angst, fluff.

— 𝐜𝐰 : uncensored trigger words, suicidal thoughts, self - harm mentions, blood, fluff at the end. suicidal gender neutral reader.

— 𝐚/𝐧 : i just need some comfort rn ; the ending is so butt what happened there. THIS IS SO BAD I’M SORRY

“ it’s really hot out here … are you sure you want to keep that on? ” shuichi gently asked. “ it’s been a minimum of around 60 degrees everyday this week, and you’ve been wearing a sweater? … ”

“ it’s just … comfortable. ” you replied.

shuichi caressed your hand, feeling the sweat accumulating on your fingers. “ you seem uncomfortable, though … ”

you disagreed. what a lie.

shuichi continued to drink from his water bottle, tired from the outdoor gym activities. you didn’t bring water, having overslept and unable to bring some to school. your throat was parched, a drought beginning to spread throughout your body.

but most of all, your arms ached. the marks could open up any moment, and shuichi would see. you shifted around at the thought. you didn’t want to worry him anymore about you, he didn’t deserve to be with someone like you. he deserved better, as you were always so used to thinking.

you must’ve had that usual faraway look in your eyes, because shuichi put a hand on your arm to ask again if you were okay.

you simply nodded as you felt shuichi's eyes gaze at your face. you were absolutely gorgeous to him … it never occurred to him that you may not see the same views as him on your appearance.

“ i love you, ” shuichi murmured, planting a kiss on your temple even if it was pretty damp. he then blushed, apologizing repeatedly for not asking first.

you wished that this fuzzy warm feeling could stay forever, but as you knew very well … good things always must come to an end.

< warning . next part contains mild descriptions of self harm . if you wish to skip it , go on till you see these brackets : < _ > . viewer discretion is advised. >

you pulled out a razor, skidding it across your skin. your bloody skin, your scars re - opening and screaming in agony.

you redid the action on a different spot, blood appearing there too. your hand shook. you pressed the razor blades harder into your flesh. blood ran down your arm, the blades sinking further into you.

your mind was fuzzed. your left arm was bleeding uncontrollably. you had to continue. you moved to your right arm, digging the sharp metal beneath your tender wounds.

how would everyone react if they saw you do this?

how far could you push it in till it’d really, really be un - healable?

you felt tears prick at your eyes. until …

< end >

you heard a knock at the door. then the sound of someone … picking the lock?

“ i feel bad for intruding like this … ” you heard someone mutter.

… shuichi?

“ i'm leaving after this, i don’t feel like watching you two make out, so just give me my payment tomorrow. ”

… kokichi.

you heard a click! and your door opened slightly.

“ taaa - daaaa! okay cya now. good luck!~ ” faint, rapid footsteps could be heard fading away ; kokichi leaving, you presumed.

shuichi gently opened your dorm door, his breath catching in his throat.

his breathing became shaky, his voice like a whisper. “ (y … y/n)… ? ”

you could see tears form quickly in his eyes. he tried to form sentences, but all that came out were quiet sobs. you instinctively dropped the razor. he rushed to you and hugged you without touching your arms.

crying, he shot a bunch of questions at you. you didn’t reply to any of them, your own tears finally falling down your face. he continued uncontrollably sobbing.

he needed to help you. he slowly got himself together ( while still crying ) and went to find the dorm’s complementary first aid kits, with you still in his line of vision.

and as he was cleaning and disinfecting your arms, you finally spoke out a hoarse version of his name. his eyes shot up to your face, despite his usual shyness of eye contact.

you apologized as he got out the bandages.

“ why … a - are you a - apologizing? ” he stuttered, his tears being choked back the best they could.

“ for … making you worry like this. ” you sniffed, your own face tired and hazy.

“ i … i'd do this for you no matter what! i - i did worry … but it’s b - because i care for you …! ” he stumbled over his words, unsure on what he should say.

“ you deserve better, ”

“ you’re … you’re the best for me, though ... ”

he finished up bandaging your arms, his hands moving down to yours. he kissed the both of them lightly. you felt two small tingles run up your spine.

“ i need a tissue. ” you mumbled quietly to yourself.

“ me too. ” he said, equally quiet.

in the next few days, shuichi had permission to move into your dorm, danger - proof the vicinity, and he paid for therapy sessions to help you. and as your scars started to heal, you thanked whoever was watching you for blessing you with him.

in the lunchroom the day after that, you lightly kissed shuichi on the cheek as you watched his face turn pink. you watched kaito and maki compliment your relationship. you watched kokichi and miu make lewd observations ( claiming you two had done the do, e.t.c. ). and you watched your boyfriend smile at you playfully.

maybe life wasn’t all that bad.

please don’t repost , translate , or claim my works as your own.

#danganronpa #danganronpa drv3 #danganronpa v3 #drv3 killing harmony #drv3 #danganronpa imagines #drv3 shuichi #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #shuichi saihara x reader #shuichi saihara #angst #self harm mentions #depression #Shuichi is a sweetheart #Can’t change my mind #Fluff

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redswaberkez · 1 year ago

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You said you could write a whole essay on the design choses of P1 and P2, could I see that? 👀

time has come and so have i 😈 (and english isnt englishing gonna use translator ahaha sry)

First, i wanted to express their difference between one of them is alive, which is p1, while the other is already dead man walking (p2) For i used p2 - cold tones, like a corpse , for p1 - warmer colour palette

and also them being blue coded bitch and red coded bitch. y'know)

speaking of p2. I like to portray him more dead than alive as i said before. he is pale cadaverous in colour with spreading acrocyanosis (blue fingers, nose and ears). because of this, his hands, his skin, his entire being are cold. don't even try to warm him up. it's useless. he shot himself and the gaping hole in his skull wont stop bleeding, and all his body functions have slowed down significantly. that's why the wound doesn't heal.

the racoon eyes symptom (reaaally dark circles under the eyes) and intraocular hemorrhage (which isn't there, just slightly red eyes instead) are appears in patients with skull fractures and i think gunshot wound also matches the description. also empty lifeless look in faded-green eyes.

p2's nose and goatee are more spikey and straight bc i feel him more sharp-shaped than p1. p2 is like an explosion havoc and spikes 💥💥💥 he WILL show with all his appearance that he is a thorn and dont touch him ot you are dead, BUT he isnt shy, or meek, or sissy and etc. it's hard NOT TO notice him. yes he IS dry, but he likes to annoy people by his existence and the bullet damaged his brains so this also will act up sometimes. Thats why his pose with gun is open with a maniacal smirk. He will shoot u for fun lmao. I gave him earrings and grown hair just bc i wanted to. no hidden meanings in there And honorable mention. his pin is dead too

P1 NOW

his palette is warmer because he is alive. fiery red hair gives an even more dangerous look (like a fly agaric). disterssed black nail polish bc he is the one who is listening to alt nu metal music. imo he would paint his nails. his eyes sparkle with hatred and madness if u look REAALY CLOOSE ((and same is on my the fiiirst art of him))

okay, we zoomed too close. Now you can see his asymmetrical glasses, they give him an even more absurd and virulent look. Something that acts on our subcortex of consciousness and tells us that something is wrong. (aaand i forgor abt p2's sunglasses ooop💀)

p1 appearance isnt too sharp-shaped bc for me. for me. his isnt an explosion like p2. p1 is a predator that will wait for you for HOURS. no sudden movements, everything is precisely calculated. His world is a havoc, but he is the one who will solve this problem. He wont spoil anything in seconds. thats why his posture is closed and strict as opposed to p2. u seee.. they are the opposites.... oooo

his gaze is heavy, he looks at everyone with disgust and distrust. medium-thick eyebrows only add heaviness, unlike p2, his eyebrows are thiiin. p1 is SICK of everyone's bullshit to be honest.

Turtleneck turtleneck... I just like turtlenecks and also character must have a wardrobe with different clothes in it, right? oh and ofc. their crosses. i explained it here

and for the ending AS I MENTIONED BEFOOOORE i gave p1 klayton's (the one w red mohawk) facial traits ON PURPOSE. but for p2... for him i unconsciously gave blue stahli's facial traits (pink one) and when i relized it it was kindaaa eye-opening SJDHFSKJD. circle is closed now. also check out their music its sooo sick i cant

#thats all i can recall fOR NOW #thank u for coming to my ted talk #postal #postal dude #ask

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ravenvsfox · 1 year ago

Text

something electric in the blood

hey woah it's my birthday again! this year I've decided to subject you all to the tfc superhero au that's been in my back pocket for 2 years. feedback would be a very chill birthday gift, but I'm also just happy to be here (not letting this story languish in a textedit file)! ok! rock on etc

________

Neil’s mother could call a monsoon down from a crisp blue sky. Her power was tearful and tormented; she was always wreathed with rainwater, a grey veil obscuring her face.

Neil’s father was righteous electricity. His power was a fork in a wall socket. He went off before he was even born; his lightning struck his mother dead from the inside out. A killer before he even entered the world—a born murderer.

Mary spent the first few months of her pregnancy wishing quietly for a miscarriage, petrified of a fatal lightning strike from the storm brewing inside her. Lucky for her, Nathaniel was never anything like his father. (He takes solace in this many times, when he’s old enough to understand how dangerous his powers can be.)

Long before he was Neil, he could cradle sunbeams in each hand, whistle for hail, and bend fog around his enemies like blindfolds. He could cover his footsteps with peals of thunder as he ran, and wash away crime scenes with downpours.

When his mother was killed, he struck their car with lightning over and over, and watched the white flames burst the windshield and warp the metal. He set the beach on fire all around him, staggering and tearing his hair, smoking the sand into glass and then cutting his feet to pieces as he ran.

He kept running for months after that, his powers spilling like loose change out of a hole in his pocket. And he was so determined to survive that he no longer had a say in which parts of the weather he wanted, like—instead of checking specialty books out from the library, he was pulling down entire shelves by accident.

Now, in the final stages of his weather sickness, he finds himself screened behind fog and ice most of the time, tidal waves dragging anyone who comes close, sunlight pouring in and out of his body like fever. Most urgently, an electrical storm is always very, very close to the surface; lightning is thick in his nose, tickling his throat, writhing half-formed above him in the veins of clouds. He’s afraid it will make a weapon of him, when he’d give anything to be something else.

Read on AO3

_______

The stranger finds him in an abandoned mall, at the tail-end of his breakdown. Neil had filled the first floor up to his waist with rainwater, filtered down through the caved in ceiling—a shattered skylight that he had ripped lightning through like a hacksaw. He'd beckoned clouds down over all of the windows and finally slept, exhausted, in the eye of the storm.

The man appears out of the blue, drenched, in the foodcourt-turned-swimming pool. Water laps around his belt and bleeds up his shirt. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his expression is unreadable. Neil peers at him steadily across the water. Reflections of the graphic 90s wall decals float innocently between them.

“Neil, I bet.” He wipes his wet hands on his shirt. Through the water, Neil can see his boots grinding against broken glass. “Call me Wymack.”

Neil unfolds his legs, letting his feet dangle from the table he’s perched on. He waits patiently for violence. “How do you know who I am?”

Wymack smiles, half-cocked, maybe a little pissed off to be up to his waist in Neil’s mess.

“Not every day that a storm eats a shopping mall.”

“I asked how you know who I am,” Neil reiterates, “not if you have eyes.” His voice is raw from misuse. Everything is kind of echoey and green, in this washed-out mall of his.

“Alright smartass. I’ve had you flagged for a while,” Wymack says. “I keep tabs on supers who I think might be a good fit with my Foxes. We’ve known the general shape of you since you flattened that barn in Ohio.”

He narrows his eyes. “There’s no way you could connect me to that.”

Wymack raises an eyebrow. “You’ll notice I said flattened. As in levelled. As in hailstones the size of kittens. In the middle of August. Who else has that kind of power? A functioning dairy farm, Josten. It was a slaughter.”

Neil flinches. “Fine,” he mutters. “I know. Why are we talking about it?”

“A ruined barn, a glass beach, a total whiteout in the middle of a grocery store, this castle in the clouds you’ve hooked up for yourself? Seems like a pattern. Seems like a breakdown, actually. My job is to step in when a super loses their shit, and I think we both know you fit the bill.”

“So what happens now?” Neil asks slowly. He’s struggling to keep his voice even, but he can feel thunder brewing, metabolizing in his gut. “You take me to superpower rehab? Give me dampeners and lock me in a basement? Fuck off.”

Wymack looks unimpressed. “Talking out of your ass must be another one of your special powers.”

Neil scowls.

“Look,” Wymack starts, wading two steps closer. “I’m offering you an opportunity to be a part of a team of people like you. We all know the heroes and villains model is psychotic, but shit, powers are made to be used. We use ‘em. Find people, fix things. Or break things, if they’re not working right.”

“You’re vigilantes,” Neil says.

“No,” Wymack says, breaking out in a wicked grin. “We’re government mandated. Barely. My team is powerful. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let them hunt criminals so they don’t become them.”

“You left out the part where we’re all already criminals,” an entirely new voice says. It takes a moment for Neil’s eyes to adjust to the fact that it belongs to someone standing directly in front of him, having materialized seemingly out of thin air.

Neil clambers backwards, and a little taser beam of lightning ricochets perilously close to the water they’re all standing in.

This new stranger is so close that he can see the tawny colour of his eyes. He’s short, nearly chest-deep in the water, with a shock of blond hair and a chalky, sullen face.

“Jesus, Andrew,” Wymack complains. “How long?”

Andrew’s static expression twitches, and he’s a foot to the left without straining a muscle.

“Don’t fucking pause me when I’m talking to you,” Wymack says, nonsensically.

“Were we talking?” Andrew asks. “I forget.” He circles Neil carefully, nearly soundless in the water.

Neil frowns, still in the slippery process of righting himself on the table. His shoes screech against a flaking metal chair.

“Speed?” he demands. It comes to mind immediately, the way Andrew is sort of flitting like a hummingbird, punched out of reality and then clipping back in somewhere else. Neil has always been obsessed with the straightforward usefulness of super speed.

Andrew’s gaze turns shrewd.

“Wrong brother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Settle down. He’s green, Andrew,” Wymack interrupts. “He doesn’t know shit about the Foxes.”

His eyes flicker to Wymack and back. He glitches, and Neil’s neck is wrenched to the side by an open-handed slap to the face. His vision blurs. Lightning strikes the roof.

“Interesting,” Andrew murmurs.

“Christ,” Wymack exclaims, “what have I told you about antagonizing volatiles?”

“You can manipulate time,” Neil breathes, holding the back of his hand to the pain-flushed apple of his cheek. Andrew snaps his fingers and disappears.

“He can manipulate my patience,” Wymack says, turning a slow, sloshing circle in the water to scan the balcony overlooking the food court. His eyes focus suddenly, and Neil follows his gaze to find Andrew lounging at the top of a long-broken escalator. Wymack sighs. “Quit showing off.“

Andrew blips directly behind Wymack, who trips a little bit, slapping his hands uselessly into the water to find purchase.

“Could you turn this to ice?” Andrew asks coolly, stirring the water with his index finger.

Neil shakes his head. “Once it’s out of the atmosphere I can’t really do shit with it. What else can you do with time? Reverse it or—“

“There’s only one button on my remote,” Andrew says simply.

“Not that I’m not enjoying these pleasantries,” Wymack says. “But I’ll take an answer now, Neil.”

“You called me a ‘volatile,’” Neil accuses.

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Every single one of my Foxes was classified as a volatile when I found them. It’s not an ugly word.”

He thinks of his father splashed through the news attached to that word, of being hunched over a police scanner full of dirty voices hissing volatile spotted, in pursuit of volatile, volatile resisting arrest. It was always about putting down anyone with powers before they could even think about being empowered.

“Depends on who’s using it,” Neil says. He shivers, and it snows a little, a miniature avalanche like something off of a disturbed tree branch. Andrew puts his hand out into the flurry, producing a fistful of slush that he promptly chucks at Wymack. It collides wetly with his chest, sticking there momentarily like a pathetic badge.

Wymack looks skyward. “Give me strength.” He seems to realize that the sky is Neil’s domain when a few more errant snowflakes catch in his hair, and he shakes them off, disconcerted.

“If I come with you,” Neil starts. “Can I stay anonymous?”

“Sure. We’ll get you a mask,” Wymack says, stone-faced. Neil can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He squints. Wymack sighs. “Look kid, I don’t care what you’ve done up until exactly now. You leave here with us, we officially work together. That means I accommodate you. I get you what you need to function. A place to sleep. Doctor visits. Dampeners if you need them.” Neil bristles, but Wymack powers on. “And in return, you work for me. Help us keep things balanced.”

Neil looks at him for a long, searching moment, feeling the snow blowing out of his chest, a sudden spring thaw. His sneakers are soaked, and the thought of a place to sleep where the weather can’t find him is so tempting.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. But how do I know—”

He’s barely spoken when he feels a strange vertigo, a retreating, phantom pressure, and he realizes he’s been transported instantaneously to the back of a car. It’s indescribable, the absence of even a blink between one set of surroundings and the next. He feels like he was in some sort of virtual reality and his headset was ripped off.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

“You ask too many questions,” Andrew says.

“You moved me here?” he demands. Andrew looks at him blankly, as if this should be obvious. “I can walk,” he grits out. “Don’t waste your powers on me.”

“I was tired of your babbling,” he says. “You already agreed to come with us. The Foxhole needs us more than you need your self-punishing little enclosure.”

Neil glowers out the window, his fingers itchy on the unlocked door handle. A dozen metres away from their spot in the faded tarmac grid of the parking lot, Wymack is wedging open the defunct automatic doors at the mall’s entrance, emerging in an absurd flood of rainwater.

“If the ‘foxes’ are so capable, shouldn’t they be able to take care of themselves?”

“You would think,” Andrew says wryly.

Wymack wrenches the handle on the driver’s side door, but it just snaps back into place, locked. Andrew twirls the car keys on his middle finger.

“Enough,” Wymack says, long-suffering. He raps on Andrew’s window until his fingers jangle, and he and Neil realize at the same time that the keys are now dangling from his wrist. (Andrew’s middle finger is still raised.)

Climbing inside the belly of the car, Wymack jabs a button on the console and the headrests whack down and catch Andrew and Neil both on the crowns of their heads.

Andrew makes an affronted noise. “We have a guest,” he says.

“We have a time crunch,” Wymack says. “Not that that’s ever meant anything to you.”

“Renee will take care of it.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he argues, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot before the tide from the mall can roll out to meet them.

“What does Renee do?” Neil asks.

Wymack meets his eye in the rearview mirror. “She deals with a frankly inhumane amount of bullshit, mostly.”

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant,” he gripes. “I was getting to that part. You’re going to have to learn at least an ounce of patience if you’re going to—“

“She’s a shifter,” Andrew says.

“A shapeshifter,” Neil repeats incredulously. He’s so frantically jealous for a moment that he has to bite down on his tongue.

“She can turn into pretty much anything with a face,” Wymack says.

“You’re joking.”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I wish I was.” He takes a hand off the wheel to jab a thumb at Andrew. “You think one of him is bad, imagine three of him underfoot.”

They lapse into silence for a moment as Neil considers this. Scrubby spring scenery whips past, Wymack taps an absentminded tattoo on the gearshift, and Andrew sits utterly, perfectly still at Neil’s side.

“What do the rest of the Foxes do?” Neil asks, badly feigning nonchalance. He’s calculating how much of this could be useful to him, the ways he could co-opt supernatural speed, stopped time, or a thousand disguises. The possibilities are staggering.

“They should probably tell you themselves,” Wymack says, slanting another knowing look at him in the mirror.

Andrew snorts.

Neil narrows his eyes. “What, are they bad?”

Andrew glitches into the passenger seat, and Wymack nearly loses control of the car, clipping the horn with one flailing hand. “Last time he got too comfortable with the secret identity reveals, Kevin made him walk out into traffic.”

Neil absorbs this like a punch to the stomach, thinking of miscalculated lightning and swift punishments, a father with a bolt in each fist.

“Don’t listen to him,” Wymack says, “It’ll rot your brain.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Andrew says simply. He flicks a circle of beads dangling from the rearview, and less than a second later, they’ve disappeared.

“Jesus suffering christ,” Wymack says. “Put those back.”

“What?” Andrew says blankly, and Neil considers that any of these glitches might represent minutes, hours, or days where Andrew has been suspended, alone, in time.

He wants to ask him how long he can stay outside of time, if he ages in the infinite space between seconds, or if it’s as peaceful as it sounds to be the only moving thing in the universe. Instead he asks, “How do you make someone walk into traffic?”

Wymack sighs. “Well, if you’re Kevin, you get inside their head and tell them what to do.”

Andrew glances backwards. “Your worst nightmare, I would imagine.”

Neil’s neck is hot with anxiety just thinking about it, but he sets his jaw, defiant. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know what someone who’s afraid of their own powers looks like. And I know how easy it would be for Kevin to set you off like a firecracker.”

Neil wordlessly rolls down his window and calls down a hailstone the size of a baseball.

“No more powers in my car,” Wymack snaps, deftly forcing Neil’s window up so he has to snatch his hand back, dropping the ice out into the street. “Honestly, it’s like I’m running a daycare.”

“You don’t have a power?” Neil asks.

“I have the almighty ability to withstand annoying questions.”

“Excuse me if I’m curious about how a powerless stranger tracked me all the way to nowhere, where my—where no one else thought to look, just to enlist me into his knock-off suicide squad.”

“Well first of all, let’s make one thing absolutely fucking clear,” Wymack says, twisting in his seat, one hand steady at the bottom of the wheel. “Just because someone can’t—or won’t—use any superpowers, it doesn’t mean they’re powerless. If you listen to a word I say to you today, let it be that. Got it?”

They watch each other for so long that Neil starts to feel uneasy. The car should’ve drifted off the road by now. Maybe Andrew’s correcting their course by increments. Maybe Wymack actually has a banal, embarrassing kind of GPS power that keeps wheels to pavement.

“Fine,” Neil says, clipped.

“Good. If you call Abby powerless, I guarantee she’ll give you an earful about nursing school.”

“Who’s—“

Andrew makes an irritated noise, and when Neil looks up at the sound, he’s disoriented again by an instantaneous shift in light. His head snaps to the right, and he finds Wymack dumped unceremoniously beside him in the backseat. Andrew is busily turning the engine off up front, and a sleek, black parking garage is spread out around them, like a high-tech hangar in a sci-fi movie.

“Chrissake,” Wymack says. “Give me the keys.”

“You have them,” Andrew says tonelessly, and then he disappears. Wymack sighs and starts working on disentangling the keys that have just been magicked onto one of his earrings.

“Does he move other people around like that very often?” Neil asks.

“When the mood strikes him,” Wymack says, kicking the door open and swinging a leg out. Outside of the car, he continues, “he used to say that things have different weight, when they’re paused. All that shit like gravity, velocity, friction—they function differently when time isn’t affecting you.”

“He told you that?" Neil asks. Wymack nods. "Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be so forthright.”

“Amazing what sobriety can do to a person.” Wymack holds up a hand before Neil can speak again. “More on that later. We have a facility to tour.” They’re approaching the subtle seam of a door in a broad expanse of wet-looking dark concrete. Neil hadn’t even been able to make out that it was a door until it was close enough to touch.

“Right now?”

“You have something better to do?”

Neil shrugs. He was kind of hoping to be shown somewhere dry and windowless, but he can play house-tour.

Wymack puts his thumb to an inconspicuous tab jutting out of the near-invisible door-frame, the mechanism beeps and clicks, and the the wall sinks inward.

“That was the main lot, this is the atrium.” The door folds itself away like a bird’s wing, and Neil follows his host into a dark hexagonal space, black walls and cubbies like something from a locker room, everything lit up at the seams with artificial techno-orange. “We usually meet here before a mission, gear up and ship out.”

Neil rolls his eyes at Wymack’s back. Between the faux-military slang and the wannabe spy movie facility, the benefit of the doubt is already stretched paper-thin.

The hallway ahead is long and uniform, with identical corridors extending in either direction every ten paces. They come across a series of matching but modified outfits behind glass, displays full of black, orange and white leather, bulky looking jackets, masks, caps and gloves, boots and holsters.

“Gear,” Wymack says, lingering at the farthest case, a petite, broad-shouldered suit with a full mask, strappy vest, and brass knuckles on a hook. Wymack taps the glass. “Each of these cases opens up into a personal changing room. You’ll get a custom suit. Probably something water-proof and—“ he purses his lips against a smile. “Shock-resistant. Hope you like rubber.”

Neil examines a suit with thick, elbow-high gloves and an ornate half-mask. “I don’t really care what I wear.”

“Glad to hear it. Some of my Foxes were not so flexible.”

“Someone say flexible?”

Neil looks up just in time to see a shape drop from an air-duct overhead, like paper spit from a printer. When it hits the floor, it’s a person.

“What the hell,” Neil says flatly.

The newcomer grins. He’s tall and wiry, and his hair is gelled up into deliberate-looking peaks. Even with a complete, three-dimensional heft to him he seems stretched out, like a teenager still growing into his legs. He offers Neil a friendly hand. “Matt Boyd. And you’re the new recruit, Neil, right?”

He nods, accepting the handshake. He glances meaningfully upward. “That can’t be more than a half-inch gap.”

Matt laughs, obviously pleased. “They don’t call me Flex for nothin'.” His hand becomes putty in Neil’s grip, and when Neil tries to extract himself, Matt has him in hand-handcuffs.

“You could escape anything,” Neil marvels, half-gawking at the unseemly image of Matt’s taffy-stretched, bisected hands, slithering back and becoming whole.

Matt looks sideways at Wymack, still smiling. “He is fresh. Still has the capacity for surprise. That’s kind of nice, actually.”

Neil’s shoulders hitch upwards, defensive. “It’s been a while since I’ve met new supers.” His mother had kept him in the most oppressively average and un-stimulating hideaways she could. If he ever met supers it was by accident.

“Well that ends today, dude,” Matt says. “We see crazy new shit pretty much all the time.”

“I’m starting to get that.”

“Your thing is weather, right? You got a demo in you?” Matt asks slyly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Wymack says quickly, but Neil is already feeling his way skyward.

They’re underground, but he can still kind of always sense the atmosphere, whispering in from outside through filtered air or natural light. It’s as simple as finding a loose end and tugging.

He blinks, and suddenly, the hallway is a wind tunnel. It’s just a little air show, but still, the gusts are so intense that Wymack has to take a step back and steady himself against the wall. Matt whoops joyfully, his immovable gelled hair whipping back. He uses his stretch powers to balloon outward like a parachute, and the wind catches his rubber body and drags him twenty feet down the hallway.

Neil rolls his neck, satisfied, and the wind dies out. “If we were above ground, I could give you a real show.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt says, jogging breathlessly back towards them. “Man, we’re going to work so well together. You can be the wind beneath my wings.” He quirks a genuine smile at Neil, who relaxes in spite of himself.

“Don’t you have crime to stop?” Wymack asks drily, and Matt rolls his eyes.

“I mean, if I can’t stop some trouble, I can always make some.” He swerves unnaturally out of the way, laughing, when Wymack reaches out to cuff him over the head. “See you soon, Neil,” he calls, taking one enormous stride to the very end of the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight.

“Everyone shows off for newcomers,” Wymack says, pushing steadfastly ahead. “Please don’t give them the weather-works every time.”

Neil shrugs. “He asked for it.”

“Yeah, and you’re a real people pleaser, huh?”

The tour trundles on, through the tunnelling halls of a facility that is slowly revealing itself to be as well-appointed as it is well-hidden. They pass through a wide-open common kitchen area with enough dining space for twenty; an enormous training gym outfitted with targets, mats, a reinforced spectator box, and a fully stocked library of weapons and armour.

There are a couple of available sleeping quarters, spartan, but outfitted with sturdy furniture, clean bedding, and storage like Neil has never even thought to ask for; a lounge with a beaten-looking couch and chairs, a smaller kitchenette, an entertainment system, and a pool table; and a professional-grade medical station, equipped to hold what looks like the entire team at once.

Neil meets a laser-focused Abby Winfield in the med bay, where she’s tending to a surly Andrew look-alike with a bruise-mottled grimace on his face. Aaron’s gaze darts and slices like a bird unsettled from its perch when Neil enters the room.

Neil asks him if he ran into someone’s fist, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, just casting a haughty look down Neil’s rain-soaked jeans as he hops from the exam table. Abby seems to realize what’s coming a moment before it happens, because she waves a still uncapped tube of ointment in one hand and says, “Aaron, don’t, I’m not—“ but he’s already blazed from the room, head-spinningly fast.

Wymack shrugs an apology for their intrusion, and Abby sighs, offers Neil a surprisingly generous smile, and shoos them from her office—but not before promising a full physical exam for their newest team member.

Neil swallows his instinctive horror to being examined in any capacity, and forces himself to follow Wymack out from the exposing light of the medical hall. From there, they find their way to an imposing set of steel double-doors at the heart of the labyrinth.

“Mission control,” Wymack says, scanning them seamlessly inside. Neil can tell from the quality of his voice that this is the tour’s grand finale.

It’s a massive space, tech-ed out, and the obvious hub for the entire operation. There are sprawling screens full of moving data, a huge table, lit up from within, with stray files and blueprints littering its surface. There are also towering rows of black filing cabinets lined up against the far wall, a computer system too complex for Neil to understand most of its controls, and a couple of inconspicuous doors leading to what must be private offices.

“We do most of our planning here.” Wymack gestures towards the network of screens and keyboards. “Comprehensive database, files on every super in the country, past battle strats,” he nods towards a white-board over by the meeting table. “Individualized training schedules. My office over there.” When Neil follows his sightline he finds a woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes level and keen. Neil waves awkwardly, and her mouth pulls charmingly to the side like a swept curtain. “And that’s Dan Wilds,” Wymack finishes.

“The most important part of the base, right boss?”

“If you say so,” Wymack says, but he's smiling.

“Nice to finally meet you, Neil Josten. Gotta say, I was pretty impressed by your glass beach.”

He tries not to grimace at the thought of it. “Thanks,” he says. “It was accidental.”

She laughs good-naturedly until he doesn’t join in, and then she raises both eyebrows. “‘It was accidental,’ he says. Like he didn’t change the geography of half the East coast.”

“It’s not modesty,” Wymack says. “He really doesn’t know what kind of trail he’s been leaving.”

“I don’t really like to look—back,” Neil says.

Dan’s eyes glint. There’s something sturdy and well-balanced about her, like a broadsword. “Well. Amen to that.”

“Wait, why did no one tell me he was here already?” someone exclaims, bursting in from the double doors behind them. Dark-haired and animated, the new guy is wearing a hyper-casual graphic crop top and joggers, and when he sees Neil properly, he says, “oh christ, your aura.”

“He means to say, hi, I’m Nicky,” Dan says.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, for sure, hi, I’m Nicky,” Nicky says, waving a distracted hand. “I can’t believe how fucked up you feel.”

“Excuse me?” Neil says, face burning, caught (as he often is) between anger and shame.

“I feel what you feel,” he says, with some relish. “No wonder we’re having inclement weather.”

All of Neil’s gauges go haywire—instant panic. It’s even worse than Kevin’s supposed powers of compulsion. The thought of all his hard-won habits, straight-faced lies, and tooth and nail emotional regulation being undone by a little empathy is too terrible. Like a bad joke.

Wind whistles in his ears. Dan winces sympathetically as Nicky makes a wounded noise and grabs his own skull, staggering backwards. A wave of energy flows visibly through the air from his body, and Neil feels it impacting his own chest. Suddenly, he feels calm and docile as a lamb. He sits on the floor exactly where he is.

“Hey,” Wymack snaps.

“Nicky, stow the powers, okay. You know most of us vollies aren’t empath-compatible,” Dan says.

“I’m sorry, I—“ Nicky’s eyes screw shut. Immediately Neil is in control of his body again, and he slides sideways, panting. “I wasn’t ready.”

“What did you do to me?” Neil demands. Somewhere above ground, thunder grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says again. “It’s an instinct sometimes, I swear I can’t help it.”

“He gave you an emotional sedative,” Wymack says, crossing his arms. “Nicky can manipulate feelings.”

“But I don’t,” Nicky interrupts. “Usually. I didn’t expect it to feel like a war-zone in here all of a sudden.”

Neil stands, and starts to stalk threateningly towards Nicky, but a hand closes in his collar and lifts him clean off the ground.

“Let’s not escalate things,” Dan says, holding him easily aloft. “Nick, will you promise to turn off the charm when Neil’s around?”

Nicky puts his hands up in surrender. “Done and done.” Softer, he says, “It’s actually—nice to meet you Neil.” He smiles sheepishly, and Neil shakes his head in dull disbelief. A total stranger just took the full force of the storm at the centre of Neil’s consciousness, and he’s still smiling at him like he’s not a monster.

Dan sets Neil carefully back on his feet, and he shrugs out of her grip, putting several paces between himself and everyone else.

“I understand powers that happen without your consent,” Neil says slowly. “But if you mess with my emotions again I’m not responsible for what’ll come out of the sky.”

Wymack holds up a staying hand, moving between them. “Alright, alright, enough posturing for one day.”

Nicky looks flushed and upset, but as Neil watches, the air around his body shifts and undulates as a new wave of power is compressed inwards. His expression slackens, hazy. “It’s okay. I don’t intimidate easy.”

Neil blinks at him. “You can turn your powers on yourself?” he asks, putting his own discomfort on ice.

Nicky smiles. He seems to be following Neil’s mood at a distance, matching him beat for beat. Neil’s not sure if it’s a byproduct of his abilities or a true personality trait. “Sure. I can chill myself out if I can’t sleep, get pissed before a fight. I don’t do it very often though, it can get intense. Draining.”

“How do you know if what you’re feeling is real? How does anyone around you?”

Nicky’s smile twitches. Neil suspects he’s stepped on a nerve. “It’s not a memory thing. My power lets people know its been there. It’s why I can’t tell anyone to forgive me, or love me, or anything. They would know better.”

“Eh, I know better,” Dan says, walking close enough to rope Nicky in by the shoulders. “But I do it anyway.”

“Aw shucks,” Nicky says, clearly pleased.

“And you’re—super strong?” Neil asks, eyeing Dan’s thick upper arms.

‘Something like that. I can nudge gravity where I want it.” She looks slyly at Wymack and he uncrosses his arms, taking a step backwards.

“Don’t do it.”

“Come on, not even for the new guy?”

“Dan,” Wymack warns.

“Alright, fine,” she says, hands up. She looks to Neil. “Just know in your heart that I can lift the boss with one finger.”

“It’s a real crowd-pleaser,” Nicky agrees, perching on one of the many data-projecting desks, capped with swirling, changing screens. “But what about you, Stormy Weather? What’s your story?”

He frowns. “I thought all of you knew everything.”

“We’ve seen the highlights reel,” Nicky says. “We don’t know you, though, not yet.”

Not ever, Neil thinks. He plans to treat this like a workplace that he clocks in and out of. After hours, he’ll stay warm and remote in a fog where no one can find him. It’s safer that way.

“I know him,” Andrew says, and Neil looks over to find him cross-legged at the centre of the conference table. The interior glow makes him look haunted, lit ungenerously from below. Andrew tosses a baseball-sized hailstone into the sleek stretch of floor in front of Neil. Preserved, somehow, from when Neil summoned it in the car. “He’s a storm chaser with an attitude problem.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dan asks. Then, pinching the bridge of her nose, “never mind, actually. The less I understand the monster, the better.”

“Excuse my cousin Andrew,” Nicky starts. Andrew looks away, apparently bored. “He thinks it’s funny to scare people shitless.”

“I don’t see him laughing,” Neil says tightly.

“His sense of humour was dropped on its head as a child,” Nicky replies sadly.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Wymack interrupts. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Neil. Whole lotta new faces today. You’ll meet Kevin, Renee, and Allison when they get back from mission.”

“When will that be?” Neil asks. He’s already paranoid that the shifter will appear to him without him knowing it.

Wymack shrugs. “When it’s done. In the meantime, I don’t want any more gratuitous powers in my base. No throwing shit, no lightning bolts, no—“ Andrew blinks across the room, perilously close to Neil’s side, jaw craned up to examine his face. Neil looks down instinctively, and finds Andrew’s eyes boring into his own. “No pausing me, Minyard, I’m dead serious. If I have to repeat instructions for you again it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“What was that?” Andrew asks, but Neil’s pretty sure he’s fucking with him, because Wymack just sighs.

“Get out of my sight, all of you.” They all start to disperse, Dan back into Wymack’s office, Nicky over to the doors that lead hall-ward, Andrew into thin air. Wymack catches Neil’s eye. “Get some sleep, okay? See Abby for pills if you need ‘em. We’ll get you something dry to wear.”

“Thank you,” Neil says stiffly.

“Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow we see how you play with others, and that’s never pretty.”

“Is that a threat?”

Wymack looks tiredly to the largest screen in the room, beyond the place where stats and mission details are spinning in space. “More of a promise, really.”

Neil follows his gaze to the focal point of the screen, where a hundred thousand tiny golden lights are scattered into a world map like beads. Supers, embroidered into the dark fabric of the world, punched into time by some celestial power source or trick of science that they'll never understand.

All that running, all that wishing to disappear, and he was always just a dot on this map. There was never a reality where he was going to be able to hide forever. Not even in the eye of a hurricane. Not even in an underground bunker. And if he can’t conceal his powers, he might as well control them.

He looks back at Wymack, feeling like a season on the cusp of changing, a monsoon shaking itself dry. “Let’s get started.”

#I've been tinkering on this for years and for what!!!#my weather boy neil must finally see the light of day #the foxhole court #aftg #tfc fanfic #andreil #mine #if ppl want a second chapter speak now or forever hold your peace #anyway love you

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